


if i'm evil, still you're right beside me

by lacunalady



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Bucky Barnes, BAMF Steve Rogers, Brooklyn, Bucky Barnes & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Catholic Steve Rogers, Charming Bucky Barnes, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Famous bucky, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mob Boss Bucky Barnes, New York, Nicknames, Nurse Steve Rogers, Pet Names, Pianist Bucky Barnes, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Steve Rogers, Rich Bucky, Russian Mafia, Stubborn Steve Rogers, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29311593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacunalady/pseuds/lacunalady
Summary: “How can you say that?" Steve shudders, turning away. "I know the things you’re capable of. You’re not...a good person.”There is a beat of silence after that. Steve is afraid for a moment that he’d angered a powerful man, one to whom he had his back turned.“You don't know me,” Bucky says finally, his voice very soft.  "I can prove myself to you."****Steve Rogers didn't mean to stumble into mafia business that night--but stumble he did. After saving the life of infamous mob boss James Barnes, Steve finds himself trapped in a Brooklyn alleyway with a target on his back and nowhere to run. That is, of course, until Barnes offers him a deal; in return for saving his life, Barnes will offer him protection from Rumlow's retaliation. The twist?They have to convince the rival mob (and all of New York's juiciest tabloids) that they're madly in love.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 133
Kudos: 268





	1. the colder the night the warmer your hands hold

**Author's Note:**

> UHHHHH so sorry????/ I just couldn't....not? do a mafia au? with skinny steve? and mob boss bucky? plus a fake relationship trope bc....i love it?? 
> 
> so um yeah anyways--here she goes:

_I don't want to die alone, but I don't wanna die at all_   
_I'm not gonna keep you by the phone dear_   
_Hang up when you've had enough_   
_Too much to talk_   
_Call me when you're coming down, call me when you hang_   
_All is well that ends well, but all is well that ends_   
_Call me when you hang_   
_Call me when you_   
_Hang your head and cry if you like, but all is well that ends_

_\- Alls well that ends,_ Rainbow Kitten Surprise 

* * *

“Okay, Pegs,” Steve steps back from adjusting his patient’s cast with a satisfied grin. He’s pleased with Peggy’s state--she was getting more stable as the days went, and had so far enjoyed three lucid days in a row. He wasn’t sure when the other shoe would drop, but Peggy was a sweet woman and Steve enjoyed spending time with her when she was present enough to have pleasant conversation. 

She’d taken a fall recently and was in the hospital as she rested her broken ankle, and Steve was the nurse charged to her care. They’d quickly grown close. 

Steve makes a few notes on her chart, watching her smile back at him out of the corner of his eye. “You’re lookin’ real good.”

“Are you flirting with me?” Peggy gasps scandalously. Her weathered voice is warm and indulgent. “Very unprofessional, Steven.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” He winks, going along with the joke. He’s used to her outgoing personality by now. “I gotta head out, my shift is just about done, but I’ll stop by again real soon. You need anything else ‘fore I go?” 

“I’d like you to come back to me one day with a story about something magnificent,” Peggy sighs suddenly, her smile fading away. She sags back against the pillows of her hospital cot. 

Just then, she looked quite old and tired in a way that Peggy often didn’t. 

Steve holds his breath for a moment, waiting for her to start yelling about where she was, about enemy lines advancing--but she didn’t. 

She simply smoothes her hands over her sheets and gives him a wobbly smile. “I fear you waste so much of your youth looking after other people instead of yourself.” 

Her voice was so soft when she said it, so genuine, that Steve feels the breath get nearly knocked out of him for a moment. Compared to their light hearted conversation, the interaction had taken a solemn turn. 

“I love my job,” Is all he can think to say. 

“And what else do you love?” Peggy challenges softly, like she doesn’t really expect a reply, “Besides work.”

Steve blinks. He didn’t have any family left, not after his mother, and his only friend was his roommate, Sam, a man just as busy as Steve with his work in amputee rehab in another wing of the hospital. They were often on opposite schedules and as a result, could go days without seeing the other.

“All I want, Steve,” Peggy sighs, closing her eyes, “Is for something _wonderful_ to happen to you. Something extraordinary. Life is so short,” She muses softly, “And forgetting is so long.” 

Steve backs out of the room slowly, struck dumb by her words. 

“Get some rest, Pegs,” He murmurs. He had no idea what else he could say--he had no smart reply for her observation. In fact, her comment had hit a nerve. “I’ll see you in a couple days.” 

“Yes,” She agrees easily, something very sad in her tone, “But will _I_ see you? Will I know you, then?” She shakes her head slowly, not opening her eyes again or trying to answer her own question. The human brain, Steve knew, was a tempermental thing, as was the human heart. “Goodnight, Steven.” 

“Goodnight, Pegs,” He swallows, “Get some rest.”

Steve peels himself away before he can hear more. 

***

The New York air is lovely--dark in the early hours of the morning, and full of promise. Summer was ending, and the air was cooling down, but it’s comfortable enough now that Steve’s jacket hangs open on his shoulders without fear of being chilled. 

He’d changed out of his scrubs into plain blue jeans and a hoodie, and decided to take the long way home, cutting through a few back alley ways on his way to his and Sam’s apartment to enjoy the fresh air and exercise. He hikes his backpack up higher onto his shoulders. 

He doesn’t put headphones in as he usually might. Instead, Steve lets himself be _present,_ something about Peggy’s advice nagging at him. 

He was a young man of only 26, but there were many days where he woke up feeling old beyond his years. 

_Life is so short,_ she’d told him, _and forgetting is so long._

Was he really wasting away his youth? He didn’t have much of a social life, or _any_ life outside of work, really. He’d never dated seriously, and he didn’t particularly like putting himself out there. 

But his work was fulfilling. It reminded him of his mother, it let him help people and make a difference, it kept his hands and heart from becoming idle. 

But when was the last time anything extraordinary had happened to him? Peggy, when she could remember, had stories of the war, of liberating Nazi camps and falling in love. 

Of course, times were different. There was no war for him to fight. But what about an epic love? What about danger? 

Did he _want_ those things? 

As he turns the corner to cut through another obscure alleyway, Steve realizes his mind had wandered too far, and he’d lost his way. He blinks around himself, the streets suddenly unfamiliar, the alleyway unforgiving and dark. 

A sense of worry creeps into his veins. 

“Crap,” He mutters under his breath, squinting up at the tall red brick buildings. Nothing looks familiar. It’s an unsavoury hour to be lost in a bad neighbourhood, and Steve feels the worry start to grip him.

He pulls out his phone to attempt to call a cab or check a map, but his chest falls when he realizes it’s dead. 

_Dammit._

He peers up at the street names, looking for something that sounds familiar, when he hears the grunts of a man in pain. 

“Listen to _me,_ Barnes--” A shorter man wearing all black is crowding into the space of another man, a taller one with longish brown hair. “I want a fuckin’ cut, is all.” 

“You’ll get what I give you,” the taller man muses, sounding unperturbed. It’s a sharp contrast to the low growl of the first man’s voice. 

“Like hell I will!” 

That’s when Steve sees the gun.

The shorter man pulls it out of his coat just slightly, just enough that the metal of it catches the dull street lamp light. 

_No._

Steve had seen gun violence, had done long shifts in the ER, had seen the way a GSW bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. He had felt powerless to stop it before--but now. Now he had a chance to stop this _before_ anyone got hurt. 

He couldn’t do nothing. 

“No,” Steve whispers, and without a conscious thought to do so, takes off running with all the force he can manage towards the two men, his backpack bouncing hard against his back as his feet pound into the concrete. “Hey! Stop!” He cries, but his voice is quieter than he intends it, getting stuck somewhere in his throat. Neither of the men pause in their banter, unaware of his impending presence.

“When I make a fuckin’ demand,” the gunman pulls the gun out a little bit more, “I expect those demands to be _met--”_ He pulls the gun totally free, then and aims it squarely at the other man’s chest. 

Steve’s heart stops.

“ _No!_ ” Steve shouts louder, loud enough that both men turn towards him sharply. “Don’t shoot!”

He stretches both of his arms out and crashes with all of his momentum into the gunman, at the very same time the man pulls the trigger. 

They crash into the concrete in a heap of bodies and flailing limbs, landing hard enough that Steve gets the breath knocked out of him. 

The next few minutes are pure chaos. 

“Who the fuck are _you_?” The gunman is growling in his ear, trying to get a good grip on Steve while Steve tries his best to wriggle free. 

There’s a lot of cursing, after that, while they struggle. 

Steve is _trying_ to get out of the gunman’s grip, but he’s got too much height and bulk, and once he gets his hips to bracket Steve’s, it’s a lost cause. 

“Get the fuck off of me you asshole!” Steve spits in the man’s face, kicking with all his might. He couldn’t let himself be an easy target, at the very last. He had to keep moving, keep fighting. 

Steve was starting to panic; he wasn’t going to be able to fight his way out of this easily, and the Brooklyn streets were nearly empty, he hadn’t seen another soul on his way home besides these two men. No one was going to get help. He was on his own.

Then, Steve remembers. 

He looks over his shoulder at the taller man, who was slumped against the wall but clearly alive, and actually in better shape than Steve would have thought, since he heard the gun go off. 

The man is struggling to stand and doing an okay job of it, from what Steve can see. That was good. That meant there was hope.

“ _Run!_ ” He tells him desperately, “Get out of here! Get help!” 

“You fuckin’ work for Barnes?” The man hisses, pressing the gun to Steve’s temple, the man pressing all of his weight down onto Steve. “Answer me.” 

Steve goes absolutely still for two reasons. 

One, he’d never felt the cool promise of a gun pressed to his skin before, it sends a shock of pure fear through his veins. 

And two, he _knows_ that name. 

_Barnes_. 

James Barnes, one of the most infamous mafia leaders the city had ever seen. He owned over half of New York, had people paid off in every profession that mattered, had the mayor in his pocket and the entire NYPD. 

Steve realizes, then, just how much trouble he’d gotten himself into. 

This was _mafia_ business he’d interrupted--and he was pretty sure he’d come to regret it in the very near future, if that gun was any indication. He certainly hadn’t made a friend tonight. 

Based on the media coverage of Barnes, Steve wasn’t entirely convinced that whoever this gunman was _didn’t_ have a noble cause. Barnes was supposed to be a bad apple. Steve supposed you had to be, in his line of work. 

But there was something about the fiery hatred burning in the gunman’s eyes that made Steve doubt his morals were pure either. 

And no matter the deed, killing doesn’t solve anything--he believed in the ultimate value of human life. He had to, he spent all day trying to preserve it. 

“I don’t work for a- _anyone,”_ Steve says vehemently, though he does stop struggling. The thought of being tangled up with mafia business absolutely terrifies Steve, and he has to make it clear that this was purely accidental that he’d stumbled across this scene. He realizes, however, how bad it looked for him. Rushing into danger. Saving a powerful man. 

Peggy was going to flip out when she heard this one.

The man keeps the gun pressed to his temple, but his other hand comes to wrap around Steve’s throat, gripping tightly. “I asked you a fucking question,” he hisses. “ _Answer_ me--and don’t try any bullshit. Who do you work for?” 

Steve didn’t have many options; the man out did him in height, in weight, and probably in skill. 

Sure, he was also probably underestimating Steve for his size--and Steve _did_ know how to fight, especially when he had the benefit of doubt. 

He rears up in a sharp movement and butts his head into his attacker’s, causing an explosion of pain for both of them--but it’s the hesitation he needed. 

He throws his weight into the man’s torso and manages to get himself free, scrambling to his feet in an unsteady movement and backing up to put some space between them. 

_Think, Steve,_ he told himself. The man, Barnes, was still curled in on himself against the wall, though he had moved into an upright position, standing but leaning on the wall for support. It looked like he was perhaps typing a message out on his smart watch? Steve couldn’t be sure. 

“Keep pressure on the wound!” Steve barks at him. He was going to be personally offended if he jumped in front of a gunman to save a guy who simply bled out anyways. In a sluggish movement, Barnes’ hand comes to press into his wound. 

He grumbles something at Steve in another language that doesn’t sound too kind. Steve is relieved--it meant he was conscious and coherent, likely not going into shock--

“You fucking _asshole,”_ The gunman is already getting to his feet again, making Steve focus back on him. “I don’t know who the fuck you work for but I’m gonna--” He grabs Steve around the torso, and slams him hard into the ground, knocking the breath ouf ot him. 

Steve lays on the concrete, gasping for air, his vision going spotty as pain explodes in his head. 

The gun presses to the back of his skull again. 

“Get away from him,” A man growls dangerously--not the gunman, but the other one, the one whom Steve had been trying to save. Barnes. His voice sounds strong. Angry. 

The gunman grunts and the gun leaves Steve’s skin, possibly turning back to the second man--Barnes. 

“Let him go,” Barnes says darkly. His voice is pretty even considering Steve is pretty sure that the bullet at least grazed him, and may possibly be wedged somewhere in his lower abdomen. Blood colored the entire front of his t-shirt. 

“Who is he to you?” The gunman sounds intrigued. “Someone important, huh, Barnes?” 

Steve groans and tries to get to his feet, pain exploding behind his eyes. He manages, shakily, to stand up, leaning heavily on the brick wall. He holds his fists up by his face to protect it, anticipating a blow or kick. 

It makes the gunman laugh. “What--do you want more? You aren’t done yet?” 

“Could do this all day,” Steve spits out a mouthful of blood. His body aches. 

“Come on, boys,” A female voice startles all of them into looking up sharply, as a redhead waltzes towards them, a gun twirling between her fingers like it’s no more than a children’s plaything. A lean blond man trails behind her, looking vaguely bored. “Must I _always_ be cleaning up after you?” 

Then three things happen all at once, very quickly. 

The gunman grabs Steve roughly by the back of the neck while he’s distracted, trying to place the redhead--he thought he knew her from somewhere--and shoves Steve’s back against his chest. 

“I’ll shoot him,” The man threatens gruffly, no hint of a lie in his voice. “I will.” 

“So? What do I care?” The redhead shrugs. She looks completely unbothered, hardly sparing Steve a second glance. She had only eyes for Barnes--maybe they were together. “Do it.”

Steve’s jaw falls open, but Barnes straightens, his eyes tracking the movement of the gun and nothing else.

“No. I want him alive,” Barnes says, but Steve isn’t sure if he’s talking to the woman or the man holding a gun to his head. The words ring of authority. 

“Who is he to you?” The gunman demands, gripping Steve roughly. “He your little fucktoy or somethin?” 

Steve grits his teeth together. He isn’t going to die like this, not by getting caught up in the middle of mafia business while walking home from a shift, not being talked down to by some lowlife with a gun. _No way._

“Let’s just talk this out. I’m sure we can come to a solution where no one gets hurt,” Barnes murmurs very carefully. His bravado is slipping as he stares at the gun, perhaps realizing how willing the gunman was to end Steve’s life. Steve wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but it didn’t matter. He knew enough of Barnes’ reputation to know that his concern probably didn’t come from a heartfelt concern for Steve’s wellbeing. “Rumlow--let’s--”

Steve can’t put his faith, his life, in Barnes’ ability to negotiate with a gunman who didn’t seem interested in empty words. 

Mustering up what little strength he had left, he rears his elbow back into the gunman’s stomach, and then sends his fist back to punch the man in the crotch, hard enough that he drops the gun to grip himself, stumbling back. 

Steve kicks it out of the way, far from his reach. 

“Nice,” The woman nods appreciatively. She cocks her gun at the withering man, but Steve steps into view, blocking her shot. 

“No!” He cries. He wouldn’t be witness to murder. Not tonight. “Don’t. _No one_ is dying tonight.” 

She growls something at him in a language Steve doesn’t know, but it sounds guttural. Maybe Russian. 

“Don’t think I won’t shoot through you,” She hisses. “Because I will.” 

“Nat,” the blond man speaks for the first time. “Take it easy--”

Barnes makes a soft, hurt sound, and Steve’s eyes flutter to him, worrying. 

That sound was familiar to him--he heard it all day long in his work, and it triggered something protective.

“You’re hurt,” He approaches Barnes slowly, as one might approach a dangerous injured animal, afraid of them lashing out. But when Barnes doesn’t react or threaten him, Steve relaxes slightly. He doesn’t think, just follows his instinct, his hands moving to lift Barnes’ shirt out of the way to examine the injury. 

“ _Get_ _away_ from him,” the woman warns in a low, dangerous tone, but Barnes shakes his head, seeming at ease with Steve’s touch. 

“It’s fine, Natasha,” Barnes reassures her gruffly. “Relax.”

Barnes’ skin was pulled taut over hard lines of muscle, scarred up here and there from God-knows-what. Steve prods gently at the mass of blood, afraid of what he’d find...but upon touch and inspection, Steve sighs a breath of relief. 

The bullet hadn’t entered, but it had grazed, and it would need stitches. Steve is pleased to see that this injury isn’t life-threatening. Maybe he had done a good thing--his efforts weren’t in vain. 

If he hadn’t interrupted when he did, Barnes might not be breathing right now. 

“You need a hospital,” Steve steps back, trying to give his voice the same tone of authority Barnes’ had had earlier--he needed these people to listen to him, “I can take you, I’m a nurse at Brooklyn Center Hospital, I can make sure it’s all kept very, uh, discreet.” 

He had to get somewhere _public_. As a witness to all that happened in that alleyway, he was pretty sure the mafia boss of New York didn’t just plan to let him walk free, no questions asked. He wasn’t in the clear just yet. 

Barnes squints at him. “If you’re a nurse, then can’t you just stitch me up at home?” 

Steve blanches. But of course, he’d been right--they didn’t just want to let him walk free. His heart rate increases. “I need--I need a sterile environment, and the right tools--”

There is a sound of rustling and then hard footsteps pouding on concrete. They all turn to look. 

“Dammit,” the woman grunts, folding her arms over his chest.

The gunman runs in a zig-zag pattern before jumping into an awaiting black van, the door already opened for him. He throws himself inside and the vehicle takes off, tires squealing. No one makes the effort to chase after him.

They all stand still, listening to the sound of the engine getting further and further away. The night seems eerily silent. 

“No hospitals,” Barnes snaps finally, straightening with some difficulty. He doesn’t seem like he wants to pursue his attacker, looking away disinterestedly. Blood pools around his fingers as he presses them to his wound. “We’re going home.” 

Steve lifts his chin, hope swelling, that perhaps they would be allowed to go their separate ways. “Fine. Goodbye.” He turns on his heel to leave, but the woman grabs his wrist, stopping him. 

“Ah, ah, ah--not so fast. You’re coming with us,” She smiles sweetly, though there is nothing warm about it. 

Like hell he was. Steve read somewhere that going to a second location with a kidnapper almost always resulted in death. 

He jerks hard out of her grasp and lunges to take off running, but in the fraction of a second where he’d shifted his body weight, the blond man had tracked his movement and stepped in front of him, blocking his path and any chance to freedom with a smooth movement. 

His heart sinks. 

Steve is outnumbered. He’s hurt and exhausted. If these people didn’t want him to escape, he’s pretty sure it’s a lost cause. 

“People will be looking for me when I don’t show up at work tomorrow,” He warns thickly, body stiff. “They’ll be wondering where I am.” 

“Let them wonder, then,” The woman shrugs. “Are you going to make the trip back to the car easy, or difficult?” 

Steve clenches his jaw. “Difficult,” He snaps. Serves them right, for stealing him off the streets after trying to do the right thing. Goddamn _mafia._

She lets out a very put-upon sigh, like she just found out she’d be late for a lunch date or that she’d miss an airing of her favourite TV show, and steps in front of the blond man to get closer to Steve. The hair on the back of Steve’s neck stands up. 

“Yeah, I figured you’d say that,” She mutters, “So let _me_ make it easier, for all of us.” 

With a sharp movement, she grabs a handful of Steve’s hair and slams his face against the concrete building. 

His ears ring only for a moment, before he drops like a sack of potatoes. 

The last thing he hears before he fades away is Barnes’ angry voice. “Goddamn it, Nat,” He hisses, and then, softer, just as the edges of Steve’s vision go black. “You’re okay, honey. We’ve got you.”

“No,” Steve protests weakly, but he can’t fight the arms that scoop him from the earth. He can’t do anything but close his eyes and pray that whatever they were planning on doing to him, they’d make it quick.


	2. guns in my head and they won't go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So I’m being kidnapped?” 
> 
> Bucky watches Steve through his bottom lashes. The corners of his lips seem to be fighting the smallest bit of a smile. “No.” 
> 
> “Sounds like I’m being kidnapped,” Steve drops his hand which he’d realized too late was still pressed to Bucky’s solid chest. He steps back, putting some space between them and folds his arms stubbornly over his chest, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. “What ever happened to good old gift baskets? Or a traditional little thank-you card? Maybe a cupcake?” 
> 
> “Do you want a gift basket?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR LOVELY RESPONSE ON MY LAST CHAPTER.. wow!! it was so wonderful to see that feedback, i just had to post the second chapter ASAP!! 
> 
> ~~~enjoy!

_I've been lookin' at the stars tonight_   
_And I think, oh, how I miss that bright sun_   
_I'll be a dreamer 'til the day I die_   
_And they say, oh, how the good die young?_

_But we're all strange_   
_And maybe we don't want to change_

\- "Spirits", The Strumbellas 

* * *

When Steve wakes up, the first thing he notices is his pounding head. He’s got the worst headache of his _life,_ and he needs water and Advil _stat_. 

And shit--what time was it? Was he going to be late for his shift--?

_Oh._

The events of last night rush back to him in a flurry--the gunman, the stranger, the redhead with the brutal blow to his head. 

_Where the hell was he?_

Steve starts, bolting upright in a cool bed of an unfamiliar room, a masculine looking space with black leather and white marble everywhere. The light that streamed into the room told him it was sometime late morning, maybe early afternoon. He hadn’t been out that long. 

He breathes hard, cataloging his surroundings. They--Barnes, the redhead, the blond guy--had taken him last night, this must be his place. Steve still didn’t know _why_ they’d taken him. Why they hadn’t let him walk away. 

It couldn’t be for anything good. 

“ _What_ are we going to do with him?” A female voice hisses--it’s the redhead, from last night. She’s pacing back and forth on the white marble flooring, wearing the same clothes she’d had on when Steve had seen her last. Her stiletto heels make loud but oddly satisfying _clicks_ against the flooring as she does so. “I _told you_ to just leave him there, let him make his own conclusions--” 

“He saved _my life_ , Natasha,” Barnes, the man who’d been hurt last night, growls ruefully, “And don’t forget who makes the decisions here.”

“He’s a liability.” 

“Maybe,” Barnes concedes, “But I--Oh. You’re awake.” 

For the first time, the man’s eyes slide over to Steve, and they rake over him almost sensually, cataloging him. Steve stares back with wide doe eyes, feeling suddenly naked. Those pale eyes are calculating, predatory. Cold. The hair on the back of Steve’s neck stands up at attention. 

“Good morning,” Barnes greets him with a tilt of his head. His voice is even, hard to read. “I wasn’t expecting you to wake up so soon.” 

Steve doesn’t wait to think of a smart reply. He’s in survival mode, already scrambling out of bed, searching for an exit. 

His mind runs through a million possibilities of what they planned to do with him, and none of them ended up with him walking out a free man. 

He had to get out of here--wherever _here_ was.

“You aren’t leaving,” The female--Natasha, the man had called her--sighs ruefully. “We need to talk.” 

“I h-have a shift,” Steve stammers, his hands curling into fists. He stops just shy of the door. Based on how unbothered the two of them looked about Steve’s odds of escape, he was guessing it was locked, and maybe even guarded. From what he knew of Barnes’ power, he had lots of people in his employ. Why not guards, too? “People will know I’m missing. They’ll look for me.” 

“Yes. People are looking for you,” Barnes agrees, arching a dark brow. 

“I need to go,” He repeats urgently. His shift didn’t start until later that evening, but he’d be missed if he didn’t show up. If Peggy was lucid, she’d be wondering where he is. 

A sense of guilt clutches at his stomach. He didn’t want to miss one of her good days. 

“Not yet,” Barnes says firmly, but there is almost something apologetic about his tone. 

“I--Where’s my phone?” Steve demands, patting his pockets and getting sidetracked. He felt naked without it, even if it had been dead when he’d pulled it out last night. 

The redhead holds up a crushed metal thing. Steve’s phone. It must have taken a beating when he did last night, caught up somewhere amidst their struggle. 

“Doesn’t turn on. I tried charging it,” She shrugs. “It’s a lost cause unfortunately.” 

Steve stares at her, puzzled. “You tried fixing my phone?” 

Her full lips tug up into a dangerous smile. “You can learn a lot about a person from their cell phone. I want to know who you are.” 

That also reminds Steve: “My backpack,” He glances around the room, but doesn’t see the familiar navy blue bag anywhere. “Where--” 

“We suspect Rumlow grabbed it when he fled the scene,” Barnes sighs regretfully, looking out the window. “That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about.” 

That makes ice rush through Steve’s veins. His wallet was in there with all of his IDs, his ID card for work...if Rumlow, the gunman, if he had that bag, if he’d made _sure_ to grab it before escaping, then didn’t that mean he had something planned, some terrible way to use that information against Steve? 

If it was money he wanted, he wouldn’t find much in Steve’s bank accounts. But if it was information..then yeah. He’d have whatever he needed to dig deeper into who Steve is. 

“Dammit,” Steve curses, his shoulders deflating a little, too sidelined by losing his things to go into full-blown panic mode just yet. “I--I have to call the bank, get my cards cancelled, my ID--”

“I don’t trust you,” The woman pipes up finally. “I think you’re hiding something.” 

Steve glares at her, mourning the loss of his phone and bag with a deep frown. “I’m just a regular guy. You’re the ones who got caught up in a gun-fight.” 

“Oh--and I suppose you’re going to tell me you were in the wrong place at the wrong time?” She laughs dryly. “And that _place_ just happened to position you right in front of a gun? Yeah. Right.”

Steve’s blood boils at the mocking tone in her voice. “I was going to _stand by_ and watch someone get shot _.”_

“What a _hero,”_ Her lips curl around the words to make it sound like the worst insult she could have possibly chosen for him. 

Steve sees red in response. 

“Natasha,” Barnes _tsked,_ finally having enough of their little exchange _,_ “Manners.” 

He gets to his feet gingerly, and Steve notices for the first time a crudely placed bandage in the place where just last night his fingers had plugged up a gunshot wound. 

It was just barely visible. The light coming into the apartment made his white button up just a tad bit transparent, highlighting his wound and the thick muscles of his upper body. 

He approaches Steve slowly, like a predator to its prey, but his face is friendly, inviting, if a little calculated. He stops a few feet away and offers a large hand, a Rolex watch glittering on his wrist. 

“I’m Barnes,” he introduces quietly, as if trying to appear non-threatening,“But, for savin’ my life, you can call me Bucky.” 

“I know who you are,” he breathes, stumbling back a few feet. “James Barnes.” 

It was basically a household name in New York, the famous mafia leader who had people paid off in every aspect of the city life. He got caught with nothing, got away with everything, and he owned half the city. Somehow, Barnes hadn’t seemed intimidating before. 

He’d been wounded, always hunched over, always hurt. Now, though, when he was stretched out to his full height right before Steve, with his bulk talking up the majority of Steve’s view, Steve can see why people fear this man. He was intimidating. 

“Bucky,” Barnes corrects, “Please.” 

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Steve says nervously, not accepting the outstretched hand. Barnes-- _Bucky_ \--lets it drop to his side, a curious expression flashing across his handsome face, only lingering for half a second before it disappears. “I just--I just want to go home. Please.” 

“Who do you work for,” The red head snaps, taking a few slow steps closer to Steve. Unlike Barnes, there was nothing remotely familiar about the way she watches him. “Pierce? Rumlow?” 

“Excuse her,” Bucky doesn’t look away from Steve, doesn’t meet the redhead’s eyes, “My friend Natasha here isn’t the most friendly when it comes to strangers.” 

The woman, Natasha, mutters something in another language back at Bucky--it still sounds Russian to Steve’s ears, and doesn’t sound very kind, but he smiles at her anyway in response, even if the grin is a little tight around his eyes.

“Who do I--” Steve shakes his head. “I’m a--a _nurse._ My name is Steve Rogers, I’m just a regular guy. I’m not _working_ for anyone--I’m _not_. I work at the Brooklyn Hospital, I have for a few years n-now. I’m not, I’m not a part of this.” _Your world._ “I just want to go home. Please, let me go.” 

“You’re not going anywhere until we find out who you’re working for,” Natasha states matter-of-factly. “So either you start talking, or we find a way to _make_ you start talking. I don’t buy the Good Samaritan act.” 

“Nat,” Bucky snaps, once again not breaking eye contact with Steve, “I think you’ll find there is some business that needs to be handled in the living room.” 

“But--” 

“ _Pressing_ business,” He corrects sharply, not giving her another chance to refuse him. 

There is indeed something dangerous about his tone, something that makes Steve feel that Bucky could become a loose canon at any moment. You didn’t earn a reputation like Bucky’s by making friends.

She stalks out of the room, knocking twice on the door. Two suited men open it silently and then shut it behind her. Steve hears a latch click into place. _Locked._

“That’s better,” Bucky sighs, running a hand through his long-ish hair. It falls back in his face the second he removes his hand. “She’s a handful when she wants to be. Okay, now--Steve, is it?” Bucky tries to smile again, but it’s forced. “Steve, listen--” 

Steve takes a deep breath and then sticks up his chin. _Be brave._

He takes a step closer to Bucky to change the power dynamic--now _he_ was the one encroaching on Bucky’s personal space. 

He jabs a finger into Bucky’s chest. 

He’s exhausted, his head is pounding, and he seriously just wants to go home. He has to make this guys see reason. If he won’t respond to begging, maybe he’ll respond to force.

“No, _you_ listen,” Steve growls, putting every ounce of frustration he felt into his tone until it was dripping with conviction. “I’m not going to get caught up in this shit. Okay? I did a _good_ thing. I could have kept walking home, could have just left you there on the street. To _die_.” 

“Yes, you could have,” Bucky looks amused, looking down at Steve through his bottom lashes. They’re standing awfully close, but Bucky doesn’t look like he feels threatened or even uncomfortable by their proximity. 

Steve supposes a powerful man like that was used to having people attempt to intimidate him, and Steve is self aware--he knows he isn’t the most intimidating guy around, what with his 5’6 stature and petite frame. “But you didn’t leave, did you?” 

“I’m not one to walk away from a fight,” Steve says through gritted teeth. 

“I realized that pretty quickly last night. Instead, all unarmed ninety pounds of you decided to rush the unhinged man with a gun with a dead cell phone in the dead of the Brooklyn night.” There is something else in that tone, something...appreciative? Impressed?

Steve wets his bottom lip with a quick swipe of his tongue. Bucky’s eyes track the movement. 

“Don’t like bullies,” He tries to snap, but it comes out more breathless than he intends. “Don’t care who they are.” 

“I would be dead if not for you,” Bucky agrees, and his voice is suddenly low and smooth, like honey dripping from a spoon. It sends a shudder through Steve’s spine, though Steve isn’t sure why--perhaps the dangerous undertone in it triggers a fight or flight response. His body is picking up on the predatory way that Bucky watches him. 

“And now what? Now you’re going to kill me? Not much of a _thank you_ if you ask me.” 

“No, of course not.” Bucky looks offended that Steve even suggested the idea. “But I do need to keep you here for a while.” 

“So I’m being kidnapped?” 

Bucky watches Steve through his bottom lashes. The corners of his lips seem to be fighting the smallest bit of a smile. “No.” 

“Sounds like I’m being kidnapped,” Steve drops his hand which he’d realized too late was still pressed to Bucky’s solid chest. He steps back, putting some space between them and folds his arms stubbornly over his chest, not meeting Bucky’s eyes. “What ever happened to good old _gift baskets_? Or a traditional little thank-you card? Maybe a cupcake?” 

“Do you want a gift basket?” Bucky seems to be enjoying this little exchange. 

Steve sours. He wasn’t in the mood for bantering with a mafia boss today, thanks. He was exhausted. “I _want_ to go home,” He repeats stubbornly. What part of that is so hard to understand? “What do you want from me? I don’t work for _anyone,_ I can’t tell you anything--”

“I know that,” Bucky interrupts, his tone growing more serious, “Nat knows it too, she just likes to be sure.” 

“So then?” Steve throws his hands up in the air. “So then just say thank you and let me _go!_ ” 

“It’s for your own safety,” Bucky begins patiently, “I’m a man of honour, as much as any man like me _can_ be. And if I let you go home now, one of Rumlow’s men will probably just find you and shoot you, for interfering with their plan. Rumlow takes things personally, and he won’t want word to get out that he was overpowered by--” Bucky thinks for a moment about how to put it delicately, appraising Steve’s tiny stature. Steve folds his arms tightly over his chest and fights the urge to stick his tongue out at Bucky. “--A civilian.” 

Steve frowns, his mind working fast. He hadn’t realized at that moment, stepping in to save a complete stranger, that he’d be risking his own life so thoroughly in the process. 

“He has my bag,” Steve murmurs quietly, staring at the floor. “He’ll know my address, where I work…” 

“Yes,” Bucky agrees regretfully. “Rumlow is temperamental. I’m afraid he’ll see your interruption as a personal offence.” 

“But--I can’t just _live_ here until that guy decides he doesn’t want to kill me anymore. I have a life. A job. A roommate who is going to be wondering where I am!” Steve cries, shaking his head. “I need to go home. My roommate _will_ send out a search party, and--” 

“I know.”

“--I have patients who need me, who trust _me_ to take care of them, and--and why would anyone want to kill me anyway? Honestly it just seems like more trouble than it’s worth--”

“I understand, but--”

“I’m not going to let myself just be held hostage here because it’s _for my safety_ or whatever--”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts sharply.

Steve seethes, his gaze flying up to meet Bucky’s. “ _What.”_

“Breathe.” 

That only makes him see red more. He locks his muscles and sees red. “I. Am. _Breathing._ Fine.” 

“I have a plan, of course,” Bucky arches a brow, cutting Steve off. He doesn’t look even slightly off put by Steve’s temper, “And it _will_ work. But it will take time, and effort.” 

Steve bites. His mind is reeling too much from all of this information to really think too far ahead. Slowly, he relaxes his muscles, unfurls his fists, and drags his eyes up to meet Bucky’s. “What is it?” 

“I have an empire,” Bucky says casually, as if just commenting on the weather. He looks out the window of the penthouse, as a king would look over his kingdom. “And yes, that means I have enemies, like the ones you saw last night. But I also have a lot of allies. And power.” 

“Seems like you like to brag,” Steve muttered under his breath with a barely-concealed eye roll. Bucky chuckles at that, turning back to Steve. Steve hates himself for it, but he notices the way Bucky’s muscles ripple under his almost-transparent shirt as he moves. 

“And _with_ all that,” Bucky continues as if Steve hadn’t spoken, “Comes respect. People respect the things that I respect. To be close to me is to be safe.” 

That didn’t add up with any of the mafia movies Steve had seen before. 

“Wouldn’t your enemies want to hurt the people you care about? As revenge?” 

“Want to, yes,” Bucky admits cooly, “But could they? No. Not without severe retribution. I’d repay their cruelty tenfold--that’s my reputation. No one would come for Natasha or Clint because they know that I’d come for their parents, their siblings, their cousins, their neighbours.” Bucky says it all so casually, as if he wasn’t talking about wiping out entire clans of people. “And you,” his eyes rake over Steve in that hungry way again, “Could be part of that.” 

Steve’s jaw falls open.

“You’re not _seriously_ trying to get me to join the _mafia,”_ Steve laughs, stumbling back another few feet from Bucky, a hand flying to his mouth. Was this his life now? “You’re _kidding_ me.” 

Bucky doesn’t join him in his laughter. 

“Is that really so funny?” 

“Uh--yes?” Steve blanches, waiting for the punchline. “I’m not joining the goddamn _mafia,_ Barnes, jesus! I’m a _nurse.”_

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t really be joining me, Steve. Not the business side of things, at least. You love your job, correct?” 

“Yes,” Steve replies without thinking. He loved his work as a nurse, he’d never want to do anything else.

“So, if you do what I suggest, you won’t have to give that up. And you’ll be safe. Not to mention, you’ll enjoy the luxuries of this life, at least for a little while.” Bucky seems a little nervous to explain what exactly this plan entails, which in turn makes Steve nervous to hear it. 

“But. That guy last night--he was trying to kill you.” 

Bucky runs a hand through his hair again. Maybe it was a nervous tic. 

“ _I_ am not safe,” Bucky admits. “Wiping me out would be a great success for any one of my enemies. But they’d never leave me alive and hurt someone I care about. Not unless they’re suicidal.” 

Steve isn’t sure if it’s the concussion or shock in general, but he can’t bring himself to put any sense or logic into the words Bucky was spewing. 

“So--what _are_ you suggesting?” He demands finally. 

“A performance, I guess,” Bucky grins sharply, but it lacks humour. “You stay with me, here, until we can establish a reputation--”

That doesn’t sound good. “A _reputation_?”

“We go out together a few times, end up in a few tabloids, maybe a gala or two...as if we were dating. Rumlow’s men see it and think that your loyalty to me has nothing to do with you being in my employ, but being _mine._ They won’t see you as a threat to their empire, but simply an annoyance. And if you’re that important to me, they won’t risk business dealings or their lives to carry out anything like an assassination attempt, or even think about bothering anyone close to you.”

The people closest to him? He hadn’t considered that his jump to action last night had endangered them as well. 

Steve takes a few moments of silence to gather his thoughts, to string Bucky’s sentences together to form meaning. Once he’s pretty sure he understands, he takes even longer to think about just what it was that Bucky was suggesting. 

Bucky, an _all-powerful professional criminal._

Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it again. 

“You still with me, Ace?” Bucky prompts, his eyes glittering with some emotion that Steve can’t quite place. 

“I,” Steve swallows, blinking a few times as if that would help him understand, help him imagine the scenario being laid out for him. “You--want m-me...to fake date you?” 

Bucky lifts his chin, considering Steve like a lion might consider it’s prey before lunging at it. “If you want to put it simply,” Bucky shrugs lazily, his broad shoulders lifting and dropping with a carelessness that didn’t seem appropriate for the gravity of the situation. “Then...yes. I suppose I am suggesting that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you can find some time to drink some water, to stretch your tired limbs..I hope you remember that you are deserving of peace and nourishment. You are a gift to those around you. You are your BEST THING! <3 
> 
> And if no one else has told you yet today......I love you :) 
> 
> See you in the next one :)


	3. its the wrong time for somebody new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, I’m just going to--” Steve looks up and stops short, trying his best not to gape. But Bucky is shirtless, leaning back on elbows on the edge of the bed, long legs bent over the side, his hair falling in his face just a little. His olive chest is glistening with sweat and he’s built like a brick shit house, all hard lines and full muscle. 
> 
> His posture is...suggestive, to say the least, his legs spread apart like Steve was supposed to just slip between them and--
> 
> “See something you like, Ace?” Bucky arches a brow, looking delightfully amused and pleased with whatever he saw on Steve’s face. 

_Leave me out with the waste_   
_This is not what I do_   
_It's the wrong kind of place_   
_To be thinking of you_   
_It's the wrong time, for somebody new_   
_It's a small crime_

_And I got no excuse_   
_And is that alright? Yeah_   
_Give my gun away when it's loaded_   
_That alright, yeah_   
_If you don't shoot it, how am I supposed to hold it?_   
_That alright, yeah_

\- "9 Crimes", Damien Rice 

* * *

Steve stares stoney-faced at Bucky for what feels like forever, but what must only be a mere few minutes. 

“Blink, please,” Bucky says finally, looking uncomfortable. He waves his hand in front of Steve’s face and Steve blinks hard, glaring up at him, the dots finally connecting as he realizes what Bucky was suggesting. 

“You’re insane,” He mutters accusingly, “This--this is  _ insane.”  _

“Is it?” Bucky challenges, “You could keep your job at the hospital. I’ll have security to shadow you, very discreetly, of course,” He adds at Steve’s furious glare, “It wouldn’t be so bad. And you’ll be safe.  _ Alive.  _ I think that’s a fair trade, hanging out at my penthouse and attending a few social events with me in exchange for safety. Protection.”

“Safety!” He scoffs, “You’re a professional criminal!” 

“A professional criminal who prides himself on being good company. These functions, they have good food, good music...it’s not like I’m tying you up and force-feeding you cockroaches, Steve.” There was some annoyance creeping into Bucky’s voice--and, well  _ fine.  _ Bucky could be annoyed all he wants. Steve is pretty damned annoyed too. 

Steve’s scowl only deepens at that. “You sure do think a lot of yourself.” 

Bucky’s face falls a bit, his bravado slipping away, replaced with something more vulnerable. “I don’t know what else to say to convince you. You either establish a reputation with me, to ensure your safety, or you go home and risk Rumlow tracking you down. It’s very black and white.” 

Steve hesitates, which makes Bucky blow out a large gust of air through flared nostrils. 

“Would spending time with me here and there really be  _ worse  _ than having an enraged psychopath tracking you down? Wanting to kill you?” 

“How do I know  _ you’re  _ not an enraged psychopath?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “If I am, I promise to keep my psychopathic tendencies out of sight. I’ll be the perfect gentleman.” 

Steve shakes his head slowly. His forehead and the base of his skull are pounding with a fierce kind of pain that makes it hard to think. 

This...agreeing to this...it would mean change. Danger. Adventure, maybe in the worst way possible. 

If he agreed, he’d have to admit that there was something extraordinary going on here. He couldn’t just walk out of the penthouse and pretend that this had never happened, that Bucky and Natasha and the man with the gun were all just a nightmare. 

He’d become, in a way, part of this chaos. This world, for a while, would be  _ his  _ world. 

His eyes scan over the penthouse. It overlooked the city--from this height, it felt like it overlooked the whole world, like they were living in the clouds. 

Without meaning to, Steve feels his legs draw him over to the window. 

The streets below look familiar, to his surprise. Crave Coffeehouse is just below them, a cafe that Steve stopped at often when he’d go for walks in central park. 

Perhaps this world, Bucky’s world, wasn’t so different from his own. There was overlap, the evidence was there in that small cafe. Maybe they’d brushed shoulders there once or twice, not knowing what they would mean to each other in the future. Maybe they’d ordered the same coffee, said good morning to the same barista. 

Looking out the window, Steve feels like the whole city, the whole world, is below them, in every sense. Like he’s floating, no sign of being grounded anytime soon. 

He’d experienced something catastrophic. Surreal. He’d had a  _ gun  _ pressed to his  _ head.  _

He didn’t want to ever experience that again. He couldn’t be part of this life. 

He couldn’t even pretend.

“I’m not--I won’t do that,” He tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry. He turns away from the New York skyline, and back to Bucky, who had inched his way closer to Steve while Steve’s back was turned. “I can’t. I can’t get tangled up in this life.” 

“Steve,” Bucky says, so softly it startles Steve into stillness, unable to move or even look away, as Bucky takes slow, calculated steps towards him, until they’re within arm’s reach. 

Bucky watches him with a sad kind of look, then, raising his hand to touch Steve’s forehead. 

Steve stiffens, and braces to receive a blow, but instead, Bucky’s calloused fingers are so incredibly gentle, pushing Steve’s hair out of the way of his cut with slow, measured movements. 

When his fingers come away bloody, Bucky sighs softly, like the sight of it really troubled him.

Steve hadn’t realized he’d been bleeding, but he supposed it made sense. Natasha had done quite a number on him, as had his struggle with Rumlow. 

“M’sorry, Steve, but you already  _ are _ tangled up in it,” Bucky whispers regretfully, “And you’re hurt,” he sounds particularly upset about the second part of that statement. “You were being noble, when you stepped in. Kind. You...rushed into danger to save a complete stranger, risking your own life without thinking twice. And you’re rewarded with a price on your head.” 

Steve couldn’t be that significant. So he’d interrupted a little interrogation between mafia groups--how serious could it be? He was just one, insignificant man. 

There was no way anyone would see him as a threat to an empire as big as a New York mafia. 

“I don’t want your protection,” Steve turns away from Bucky, his hands curling up in fists. 

He can’t stand the tenderness in the way that Bucky watches him. He didn’t trust its origin, he didn’t know Bucky. He’s terrified to unfurl under the warmth of that gaze only to be struck down when he least expects it. He has to keep his guard up. “I don’t--I don’t feel safe here. I don't trust you.” 

There are a few minutes of silence, like maybe what Steve had said had somehow gotten to Bucky. Finally, he clears his throat softly. 

“You  _ are  _ safe here, Steve,” Bucky sounds a bit tortured, a bit broken. “I won’t hurt you; I owe you my life.” 

Steve shakes his head. He had read the news stories, he had heard the rumours, just like everyone else in New York. You don’t get a reputation like Bucky’s by having a heart of gold. 

And still...that voice. Those eyes. It all screamed...gentle. Forgiving. 

Bucky must be a very good liar. Workplace hazards, Steve supposed.

“H-How can you say that? I know the things you’re capable of. You’re not...a good person.” 

There is a beat of silence after that. Steve is afraid for a moment that he’d angered a powerful man, one to whom he had his back turned. 

“You don’t know me,” Bucky says finally, his voice very soft. 

“I think your profession speaks for itself,” Steve grinds his teeth together. He didn’t know everything about life as a mob boss, but he knew enough. “You said it yourself, you kill people. It’s your reputation.” 

Drugs, money, sex, weapons. Death. Bucky exuded danger, and although Steve didn’t feel immediately threatened by him, nothing in his body felt relaxed or at ease. 

This man was a stranger, he outweighed Steve by a mass of muscle and skill, and wouldn’t be easily overpowered. 

Not to mention his backup that was probably just outside the door. 

Steve had no cell phone and no means of escape. He was completely at Bucky’s mercy, and entirely aware of it. He supposed Bucky was aware of it, too.

“Maybe you’re right. But if you walk out this door, I have no doubt that Rumlow  _ will  _ find you. And when he does, you’ll be sorry. He won’t make your death quick.” The serious tone to Bucky’s voice does make Steve hesitate. He had lost a bit of that gentle edge, holding something darker. Something more serious. 

He’d seen the fire in Rumlow’s eyes last night, he recalled the hatred and darkness that resided in his voice and face. It consumed him. 

But he’s just a nurse from Brooklyn, surely a mafia high-up like Rumlow would have more pressing business to take care of, rather than exacting revenge on a random civilian?

Bucky is probably just trying to scare him into getting his way--although  _ why  _ he’d want Steve to stay, Steve didn’t know. 

“Then I guess that’s a risk I’m going to take,” Steve strides for the door. He had to follow his own gut instinct, rather than trust a powerful and dangerous stranger. He couldn’t believe that Bucky  _ didn’t  _ want to hurt him, and even if he didn’t, that redhead didn’t seem fond of him at all. What’s to stop her from talking Bucky into shooting Steve, executioner style? Getting rid of the body? 

Sam would never be the same if something happened to Steve. And Peggy needed him; he understood her like no one else. 

“Wait,” Bucky snaps, and lunges quickly after Steve before the blond can get out of arm’s reach. Bucky’s large hands snag around Steve’s wrist, stopping him just in time as he turns. “Stop.” 

His fingers on Steve’s wrist are strong, unforgiving, but it’s a measured kind of strength. Steve is sure he’s still keeping himself in check, not using all of his force, but his fingers are like a vice. 

“Let. Me. _ Go,”  _ Steve hisses, with as much anger and authority as he can manage. His entire body is stiff, waiting for Bucky to use his brute strength against Steve, waiting for the hurt to come. 

But it doesn't. He only gets Bucky’s pleading voice.  “If you walk out that door, you’re going to die,” There is something desperate about Bucky’s words, his tone, something pleading. “He’ll find y-you, Steve. He  _ will _ .” 

Anger shoots through Steve’s veins, and he turns to glare at Bucky, about to say something foul, when he sees the man’s face is screwed up in sharp pain.

Under Bucky’s white button up, there is a pooling of blood, seeping through the bandages and the linen of his shirt. 

The sharp movement he’d made when he’d lunged after Steve must have jostled the wound from last night and opened whatever crude stitches he’d been given--Steve was pretty certain they didn’t stop at a hospital last night and he had no idea who had stitched him up. He was half-sure Bucky had done it himself.

Steve softens. With his profession, he couldn’t just walk away. The least he could do was fix Bucky up properly before he left. He couldn’t leave with Bucky’s face in pain like that...and it wouldn’t be smart to piss Bucky off even more than Steve already had by refusing his offer. 

He tugs his wrist free of Bucky’s fingers, and Bucky lets him, a light sweat breaking out over his brow as he hunches over a little. He looks utterly defeated. 

“Let me take a look at that before I go,” Steve bristles, glaring at Bucky’s wound like it had personally offended him. 

Bucky looks surprised by the offer, squinting at Steve like he’s trying to make sense of the words. “I--What?” 

“Your wound. Let me look at it.” 

Bucky frowns, regarding him with confusion, evident through the pain written all over his face. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, I can--I can fix it up.”

Steve clenches his jaw and glares at Bucky with all the annoyance he can muster up in his exhausted state. 

“I risked my life--and am  _ still  _ risking it, apparently--in order to save your ass. I would be really, really  _ pissed  _ if all my efforts were futile ‘cause you ripped your stitches open or got sepsis and just died anyways. So sit down and let me take a fuckin’ look. Okay?” 

Bucky blinks a few times, probably taken aback by Steve’s angry tone, but finally he clears his throat and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, beginning to unbutton his shirt. “Yessir,” He mutters under his breath. 

There is something too intimate about the moment for Steve to watch, so he turns away. “You got a first aid kit or something?” He demands bitterly. 

“Down the hall to the left. Under the sink in the bathroom,” Bucky replies carefully. Even under the tone of pain that coloured his voice, Bucky sounds vaguely entertained and impressed, which only makes Steve’s ears turn scarlet red with his blush. 

He stalks down the hall until he finds a large bathroom, complete with a walk-in shower that was bigger than Steve’s college dorm room, a claw foot tub, and marble everywhere one could imagine. The exterior wall was all glass, overlooking the city. 

For a moment, Steve is struck dumb by the beauty of the space. For a moment, Steve lets himself imagine how beautiful it would be at night, with the lights of the city shining in, or in the early morning, soaking in the tub while the sun kisses the New York skyline awake--

He shakes his head to clear those thoughts and reaches under the sink to grab the first aid box he found waiting for him there, promptly not looking at anything else. 

He didn’t want to know more about this man. It was pointless. They’d part ways soon enough, and the last twelve hours would all become a distant memory, a fever-dream. 

He washes his hands well with soap. His knuckles are bloodied and bruised, his palms scraped up, but the soap is gentle and doesn’t sting too badly.

His reflection stares wide-eyed back at him from the spotless mirror, the cut on his forehead crusted with dried blood, his lip a bit swollen, his knuckles bruised. 

He turns away with a roll of nausea. He didn’t recognize the figure staring back at him. The past few hours had been...extraordinary. 

On his way back to Bucky, Steve opens the first aid kit and rummages around, relieved to see that it’s well-stocked. He’d at least be able to do a decent job of cleaning and sewing up Bucky’s wound before he leaves. 

He could focus on the task at hand, instead of thinking about potential gun-toting mafia men who had developed a personal vendetta against him. 

“Okay, I’m just going to--” Steve looks up and stops short, trying his best not to gape. But Bucky is shirtless, leaning back on elbows on the edge of the bed, long legs bent over the side, his hair falling in his face just a little. His olive chest is glistening with sweat and he’s built like a brick shit house, all hard lines and full muscle. 

His posture is...suggestive, to say the least, his legs spread apart like Steve was supposed to just slip between them and--

“See something you like, Ace?” Bucky arches a brow, looking delightfully amused and pleased with whatever he saw on Steve’s face. 

Steve feels his cheeks get hot, his mind blanking at that daring tone, those raised brows. “I--do  _ not _ ,” he scowls, staring at the cool marble flooring instead of looking back up at that bare chest until he can force his cheeks to cool down. “I’m just--I just. Your wound. Looks terrible.” 

Bucky looks like he isn't buying it, but he shrugs, letting it go much to Steve’s relief. “S’not so bad, really. I just ripped the stitches open--”

Steve gets closer and wrinkles his nose at the messy sutures, now coming undone. He forces himself to stare at the wound and nowhere else. “Who did this? A three year old?” 

Bucky scowls, looking offended. He watches Steve with an even glare. “I did it myself, thanks.”

Steve tries not to be surprised, but the image of Bucky sewing up his own gun shot wound makes him irrationally upset. 

“I worked very hard to keep you from bleeding out in the street and then you just try to sew yourself up,” He scoffs. “Y’know, if that girl Natasha hadn’t knocked me out cold, I could have done a much better job. Saved us this grief.” 

Bucky opens his mouth as Steve crouches down to be at eye level with the wound, but then he shuts it, saying nothing. 

Steve is afraid of the potential intimacy of the moment, compared with his completely irrational thoughts he’d had before, seeing the man reclined in such a suggestive way...so he doesn’t look up. 

He grabs the required tools from the first aid kit and sprays them with the sanitizing solution. 

“This is going to hurt,” Steve warns, before prodding the wound apart gently, putting the soiled bandages aside. The bullet had merely scraped, not penetrated, so that was a good sign. Bucky would be fine. 

Steve, on the other hand--well that remained to be seen.

Steve waits for Bucky to make any sound of discomfort, for him to wince or hiss air through his teeth, or  _ something.  _

But he’s silent, and utterly still, even as Steve cleans the wound, even as he drags the needle through his skin for the first time, giving Steve the impression that Bucky was no stranger to injury. Those scars that litter is skin could also attest to that. 

Curiously, Steve looks up at Bucky through his lashes, and then stops short when he does, his hands freezing in their methodical work. 

Bucky’s brow is damp with sweat, the only sign that he’s in pain--and perhaps his lips, which are bitten red and a bit swollen. His pupils are blown wide, watching Steve on his knees before him, something hungry in the way he looks down, the muscles in his chest contracting with each heaved breath. 

Steve’s lips part in surprise--he hadn’t been expecting Bucky to be watching him like  _ that.  _ It feels...like being seen naked, like being laid open for him. 

“H-Hold still,” Steve stammers out, getting back to work.  _ Focus, Steve. You’re a professional.  _ “You’re twitching too much.” As if in response, the muscles in Bucky’s abdomen jump again. 

“Sorry, doll,” Bucky breathes softly, his minty breath washing over Steve. 

Steve does his best to forget about Bucky looming up there above him, and the pet-names he was dropping, and puts himself into his work. Bucky could call him whatever the hell he wanted, it shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t get under Steve’s skin the way it was. 

The wound is mostly clean, thankfully, and it doesn’t take long for him to close up the rest of it with his methodical work. Bucky doesn’t say anything else, and Steve is thankful for it. 

“All done,” Steve announces finally, with a satisfied tone. The wound looked much cleaner than it had before. “You gotta put vaseline on it, and--” As he ties it off with a satisfied nod, he gets to his feet a bit too quickly, and fights a wave of dizziness. 

Black spots dance around his vision and he instinctively reaches a hand out to catch himself, not realizing that his hand found purchase on one of Bucky’s large thighs. 

“Easy,” Bucky murmurs, wrapping an arm around his waist. It’s heavy and warm, it feels strong. Capable of a lot of damage. Bucky’s body was a weapon, yet Steve had only seen him use it with tenderness and awareness. He didn’t throw his weight around, didn’t leverage it like an asset, though Steve knew it was. “Christ, you’re probably exhausted, ain’t you? You need to sit down.” 

Steve’s ears were beginning to ring, something that happened if his BP was too low, or his iron levels, or--well, plenty of things, really. But the concussion he’d sustained last night probably isn’t helping matters. 

He can’t think of a good reason to fight the steady arm around his waist--it felt secure, and it was warm, and he’s pretty sure that if Bucky takes it away, Steve’s going to collapse to the ground. Not very dignifying. 

He sags into the arm, rubbing his eyes roughly to make his vision focus. “I--I just need to eat something. Something with, uh, sugar.” 

He hadn’t realized, with his closed eyes, that Bucky had tucked Steve right against his side, that looming arm wrapped tightly around his waist. 

_ He smells good,  _ Steve thinks faintly.  _ Like whiskey, and vanilla, and-- _

“--You still with me, doll?”

“Huh?” Steve squints around the spots that danced before his eyes. It’s hard to hear over the buzz of pain and wave of dizziness. “What?” 

“I asked if you liked pancakes.” 

“Pancakes,” Steve echoes, trying to make his mind conjure up a mental image to connect what Bucky was saying with any sort of meaning, over the ringing in his ears. Pancakes. Fluffy, golden. Topped with syrup-- _ Sarah.  _ Sarah Rogers made pancakes. “Yeah. I like pancakes.”

“Good. Give me a few minutes.” And then Bucky is gone, and the warmth of him is dearly missed. 

“Wait--” Steve calls weakly, “Where--where are you going?” 

Bucky pauses in the threshold, still shirtless and apparently unbothered by that fact. He gives Steve a warm smile, one Steve feels like he doesn’t deserve. “You need to eat, right?” 

“I think it would help,” Steve admits carefully. What, was Bucky going to run to the cafe? Coffee sounded nice. He tries to focus over the buzz in his ears. When was the last time he’d eaten? Before his shift? 

“Right,” Bucky runs a hand through his hair and his waves fall back in his face immediately after. The sunlight streaming into the room highlighted the auburn tones in his hair. “Exactly. So stay tuned. Pancakes comin’ right up.” 

Then he slips out the door without another word, leaving Steve dizzy, gaping after him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for your wonderful comments!!! they've been keeping me motivated to write more :)<3   
> see you next week!! [or sooner hehe]


	4. i could keep you warm as long as you can just try to be brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lion in sheep’s clothing was still a lion, after all. 

_Dear rabbit, my legs are getting weak chasing you_   
_The snow fields wouldn't seem so big if you knew_   
_That this blood on my teeth it is far beyond dry_   
_And I've captured you once but I wasn't quite right_   
_So I'm telling you that you'll be safe with me._

_Oh rabbit, my claws are dull now so don't be afraid_   
_I could keep you warm as long as you can just try to be brave_

_Yes I know I'm a wolf and I've been known to bite_   
_But the rest of my pack, I have left them behind_   
_And my teeth may be sharp and I've been raised to kill_   
_But the thought of fresh meat, it is making me ill_   
_So I'm telling you that you'll be safe with me._

_So rabbit please stop looking the other way_   
_It's cold out there so why not stay here_   
_Under my tail._

\- _I know I'm a Wolf,_ Young Heretics 

* * *

Steve is left stunned for a few moments, still staring blankly at the threshold Bucky had disappeared through, all of his bones stiff with shock and exhaustion. 

His vision is still fuzzy around the edges but he blinks hard and rubs at his eyes until he forces them to focus. 

Without Bucky’s heady scent or warmth beside him, Steve straightens his posture and wills the ringing in his ears to go away and his mind to go clear. 

It’s not totally successful, but he does manage to clear his head enough to think rationally. He had let himself have a moment of weakness, but that was done now.

Without Bucky’s commanding presence, it’s much easier to think. 

He gets to his feet and cracks his neck. With Bucky gone, Steve sees his chance to escape. Perhaps he could slip past whoever was guarding the door and make it out of the penthouse without incident. 

_ Think, Steve. Focus.  _

He heads for the door with his chin up, trying to look like he had every right in the world to be leaving at this very moment. 

When he pushes the doors open, the bedroom opening up into a much larger living space, he is stopped by a rough hand clapping down on his shoulder. 

Shit. 

“Ah--wait, you. You can’t leave. Boss says you need to eat something,” A male voice informs him, almost regretfully. Steve looks over his shoulder, annoyed, to see the blond man from last night looking down at him. Clint.

He didn’t get very far--so much for his escape plan. 

“Not hungry,” Steve retorts. “I just want to go home. I need to get some sleep before work.” 

In all reality, Steve was probably going to have to call in for his shift tonight on account of being kidnapped by a Russian mafia lord--but they didn’t need to know that. 

“Please,” Bucky’s voice is familiar to Steve’s ears already, and he looks up to find him still shirtless, mixing up a bowl of batter and pouring it into a hot pan. Pancakes--he’s making Steve pancakes, true to his word. It’s strange to see such a powerful man in such a domestic setting, but Bucky looks completely at ease in the kitchen. “Come eat.” 

Steve glanced up at Clint, and also noticed Natasha lurking in another corner of the room. He’d have no chance of escape now. 

His shoulders droop down as he shuffles over to the breakfast bar, resigned to his fate.

Staying with a powerful mafia leader against his will, Steve expected to be subjected to torture worse than eating pancakes, but he’s still suspicious. He can’t let his guard down, even if Bucky had seemed friendly so far. 

A lion in sheep’s clothing was still a lion, after all. 

Bucky turns away from the stove to pour Steve a glass of orange juice. 

“Here you go. Sugar.” He pushes the glass towards Steve with an earnest look. 

Steve isn’t sure if he says  _ sugar  _ because it’s one of the many pet names Bucky seemed to like to rotate through, or if he was referring to the actual sugar in the drink. 

Regardless, Steve eyes the drink suspiciously, not picking it up. “Is this poisoned?” 

Bucky looks half offended, half indulgent. 

He takes the glass back without breaking eye contact, and takes a sip of it, then shoves the drink back with a wink. 

“If we go, we go together,” Bucky pledges in a teasing tone. “Not poisoned, promise. Try it, it’s good. Fresh squeezed.” 

“Well I hope you don’t have anything  _ contagious _ ,” Steve mutters, though he was reassured by the display. 

He takes a sip of the juice and realizes for the first time how thirsty he really is. He downs the whole thing and then pours a second glass from the glass pitcher while Bucky watches, seeming pleased.

The silence in the air seems thick and full of tension, not benefitting from the looming presence of Bucky’s groupies, Clint and Natasha, lingering in the background. 

They were a promise, Steve knew, that any chance of escape would be quickly thwarted.

Steve sets the glass down and clears his throat as Bucky turns back towards the pancakes. 

“Cozy place,” Steve says sarcastically, admiring the cool marble. Even on the black leather sofas, there stood not one throw pillow, nor blanket. The space was cool and uninviting. “Do you even live here, or is this a cover?” 

“What? Of course I live here,” Bucky scoffs without turning away from the stove, “What’s wrong with it? I like it. It’s...clean.” 

“It looks like a hotel,” Steve searches the walls but finds no evidence of any photograph or poster, nothing that told him anything about Bucky was anywhere in the place. “Are you a robot? Do you  _ have  _ interests?” 

Bucky flips the pancakes on the burner and turns to give Steve a scowl over his shoulder, but it’s half-hearted. “I  _ do _ have interests,” he protests gruffly. 

Steve snorts at that, he could only  _ imagine  _ the sort of things James Barnes got up to on a regular week-day. “Importing illegal drugs and firearms? Not sure they make a poster for that one.” 

“I like music,” Bucky says softly, turning away, like admitting these things would be made easier by not having to look at Steve. 

“Do you play?” Steve asks, mostly because he’d rather make idle chat with a mafia leader than sit in silence and listen to his pancakes cook, but also because...he’s kind of curious. 

“Piano,” Bucky gestures vaguely over his shoulder, and Steve’s eyes follow the line of sight, his lips parting slightly. He can only see half of it from where he’s sitting, but there was a glossy grande piano positioned by the floor to ceiling windows. 

“Wow,” Steve breathes involuntarily. It was beautiful, an ode to Bucky’s wealth, and perhaps his passion, too. He liked music enough to have the instrument somewhere easily accessible. Now that he thinks about it, he can definitely picture Bucky brooding over the piano, the lights down low, the glow of the city skyline floating in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

Bucky doesn’t turn around again, pouring more batter onto the pan. “Do  _ you  _ play?” He asks Steve softly. 

“Me? No,” Steve had never had the chance to try, truthfully. Music lessons were expensive and he and his mother didn’t have the kind of cash to spare for such things when she was around. After she passed, Steve figured he was too old to try to take up any new hobby. “No, I--I draw, though.” 

“You any good?” 

“I’m okay,” Steve shrugs. He’d done a commission or two, but hadn’t really pursued art professionally. “It’s just a hobby.” 

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Steve replies automatically. It was true, it was a soothing practice for him, one that let his mind go quiet. And...it reminded him of his mother. 

“You could have your own art room, if you accept my offer,” Bucky says casually. “You could host a show. Could buy all the supplies you’d need to start selling your work--”

“Bribery?” Steve snorts, shaking his head. “You really are insufferable.” 

“Been called worse,” Bucky shrugs the insult away, tossing Steve a warm smile over his shoulder. “If you want to see some real bribery, look at this.” 

Bucky flips some pancakes onto a plate, tops it with blackberries and raspberries, and drizzles it with a generous amount of maple syrup---the fancy stuff--before presenting it proudly to Steve. “Breakfast is served. The Bucky Barnes special. If this doesn’t make you want to move in, dunno  _ what  _ will.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies automatically, trying not to think too much about how weird this whole situation was. 

He’s at James Barnes’ breakfast bar, about to eat pancakes prepared by the mob boss himself, on a regular Tuesday morning. 

What had his life become?

Regardless, Steve needs the calories and the sugar, and refusing a generous offer probably isn’t the best way to earn his freedom, if that’s what he needed to do to get out of here. 

“Well?” Bucky waits expectantly. He looks proud of himself, behind all the exhaustion on his face. He leans on the counter on his forearms, almost smiling at Steve. It makes him look very young, and almost approachable. “What do you think?” 

“About the pancakes?” 

“Obviously.” 

Steve laughs a bit despite himself. “They look good,” He shrugs. “They’re pancakes.” 

“They’re the only thing I know how to make,” He admits sheepishly, “So I’m kinda proud of them.” For a moment, Steve can let himself imagine that Bucky is just a man he met, that they were enjoying a normal breakfast together, that things were easy.

“My Ma made the best pancakes,” Steve muses softly, in spite of himself. 

He didn’t talk about her often, not out loud, not to anyone. But it felt like a natural thing to bring up now, like her memory was somehow alive in the air between them. Sarah Rogers would have had a  _ lot  _ to say about Steve getting into a predicament like this one, and she was no sucker to charm or false pretenses. It would have been pretty damn entertaining watching Bucky lay on the charm only for Sarah to remain suspicious of him. 

Bucky tilts his head, his eyes going soft, he opens his mouth to say something, but Natasha pipes up before he can. 

“They’re probably undercooked in the middle,” Natasha calls from the far left, clicking around on a Macbook pro. She doesn’t look up from her screen. “Fair warning.” 

“Shut up,” Bucky snaps at her, but it’s half hearted. He doesn’t look away from Steve even as he speaks. 

Steve grabs his fork, figuring that he wouldn’t be allowed to leave until he ate something. The first bite is good, and fully cooked despite Natasha’s warning.

“Do they live here?” He asks Bucky, only partially joking, gesturing to Clint and Natasha. He couldn’t stand awkward silences. 

“No. I couldn’t live with them,” Bucky leans back against the counter, folding his arms over his chest. “ _They’re_ the insufferable ones--”

“We’re here to  _ work,”  _ Natasha cuts in again with a clipped tone, “But the boss is a little slow to get started on today’s agenda.” 

“Distracted,” Clint agrees, sounding very put-out. “So why can’t I go get Starbucks again? It’s not like I’m needed here.” 

“Wrong. I need you to escort Steve back to his apartment,” Bucky explains patiently, as if he were taking to a child. Clint pouts. 

_ Home.  _ Steve perks up. 

“So you  _ are  _ going to let me go?” Steve raises a brow around a mouthful of pancakes. 

They  _ were  _ good, and starting to taste even better with the swell of hope that had overcome him. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he had food in his mouth, and with the prospect of going home, things were looking up already.

Bucky swallows, looking down at the counter. He doesn’t take up any pancakes for himself. 

“If you don’t want to stay, I won’t keep you against your will,” He says carefully, “But you should know the gravity of the decision you’re making.” 

Steve swallows his bite and then takes another sip of orange juice before answering. “You really think that...that Rumlow is going to try to hurt me?” 

“Not try,” Bucky shakes his head, “He  _ will.  _ Rumlow took what you did last night personally. He always does. He was  _ this close  _ to getting me, Steve. I don’t know if you realize how big of an accomplishment that would’ve been for him. I’m not an easy man to kill,” Bucky doesn’t say it like a brag, more like a fact. “When Rumlow sees that you’re simply going about your life, unprotected...he’ll find his chance. He’ll hurt you. Maybe kill you. I’m not sure how far he’ll go, but he’s capable of a lot of violence.” 

“Yeah,” Clint chimes in, his voice full of disgust, “Not sure that man has an empathetic bone in his slimy little body.” 

Steve shudders a bit, thinking of that terrifying hunger for darkness in Rumlow’s eyes. If James Barnes thought Rumlow was dangerous, Steve knew he ought to think the same thing, tenfold. 

He understood Bucky’s solemn tone, he understood that  _ Bucky  _ really believed Steve was in danger. But Steve’s gut told him that he needed to go home, needed to live life the way he had been doing before he’d crossed paths with Bucky. 

No matter how violent Rumlow was, in a few days, maybe a week, once Steve became too hard to pin down, Steve was sure that he’d move on. If Rumlow spent all of his days tracking down the people who wronged him, he’d have no time in his day to get anything else done. A man like that surely had a lot of enemies. 

“I can’t stay here,” Steve whispers, staring down at the plate of pancakes. They seem like an offering, a tease of what his time in this world could be like. Good looking on the outside, sweet upon the first bite...but just a little  _ off.  _ Just a little wrong. “I  _ have _ a life. A normal life. A safe one.” 

“The safe part is debatable. And--it wouldn’t be forever,” Bucky tries again, his eyes burning. He glances around the penthouse space, and then back to Steve. “I think you’d be happy.” 

Steve looks around, too. The material comforts of Bucky’s lifestyle  _ were  _ enough to take some tension out of his bones, to be sure, but the lifestyle was all a by-product of dangerous, criminal living. 

How could he benefit from that without feeling guilty? How could he stay here and pretend like any of this was real life? 

Rumlow is a high-up. He’d have more pressing matters. He’d...he wouldn’t care about Steve. Not small, insignificant, civilian  _ Steve.  _

“I...I’m going to go home,” Steve takes another bite, though he’s just about lost his appetite, the fear and stress catching up with him. “But...thank you. For your offer,” He adds quickly, not wanting to offend Bucky. “I appreciate you trying to protect me.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Bucky interrupts suddenly, standing up straight. Steve looks up, startled. Bucky is tall, to be sure, and packed full of hard muscle. He’s got scars all over his arms and chest, and a look to him that screamed  _ danger.  _ “Is that why you won’t accept?” 

But since being under Bucky’s care, Steve hadn’t once felt threatened. 

He’d been treated kindly, he’d been spoken to with respect, and he’d been fed pancakes and freshly-squeezed orange juice. Despite what he knew about Bucky’s reputation, Steve hadn’t once felt like his life or wellbeing was in immediate danger while spending time with him, and he hadn’t seen an inkling of the infamous short-temper that Barnes was known for. 

“Should I be?” Steve challenges, narrowing his eyes. He pops a blackberry into his mouth, feigning confidence. 

Bucky relaxes a bit at that, but he doesn’t look away, still staring Steve down. 

“Maybe,” He whispers, so quietly is barely audible. “But I’m not the worst thing out there, Steve. Not even close.” 

Steve doesn’t know Bucky well enough to say if that was true or not. Regardless, he’s made his choice. Nothing sounds better than going home right now. His heart is set. 

Steve finishes what he can of the stack of pancakes and then pushes away from the table, his head pounding. 

“I want to go home, now,” He announces, looking nervously between Bucky and Clint. He was waiting for someone to refuse him. “Please.”

“Fine,” Bucky says, his voice hard. He glares daggers at Steve, and then at the floor. For the first time, Steve sees a hint of that rage, just barely contained, bubbling under the surface. “It’s your life. Throw it away if you want.” 

“I won’t hold it against you if anything happens,” Steve says quietly. He feels, for some reason, that Bucky needs to hear those words. He knows the anger isn’t directed at him, not really, not in the ways that count. He feels...oddly guilty, for leaving. 

“ _ You  _ won’t,” Bucky agrees flatly, “But I will.”

“You did everything you could,” Natasha sighs, still not looking up from her laptop. Steve supposed it didn’t matter much to her whether he lived or died, she’d been willing to shoot him just last night. “Some people just have no self-preservation instinct.” 

“He  _ did _ rush a gunman,” Clint agrees with some resignation, a hint of laughter in his eyes. “Maybe he’s insane.” 

“I just want to go home,” Steve repeats firmly, ignoring the jabs of Bucky’s...colleagues? Employees? He wasn’t sure what the proper term was.  _ Co-criminals?  _

“Fine,” Bucky snaps. “But you might want to look at taking the subway to work. Staying in the public eye.” 

Steve knew where wandering down Brooklyn alleyways had gotten him, so he planned to take that advice to heart. 

“I’ll be careful,” He promises truthfully. But he was sure that in a few days, everything would blow over, Rumlow would get distracted by a bigger and more pressing problem, and all would be right in the world. 

Steve could tell Peggy he’d had an extraordinary experience, and go back to living his happy,  _ normal  _ life with complete satisfaction. 

“Boss?” Clint looks to Bucky for confirmation. 

“Yes. Take the car. Take him home.” 

“Am I really going home?” Steve wets his lips, unable to settle the flipping feeling in his stomach, “Or is that code for  _ take him to the dock and make sure no one finds his body?”  _

He half expects to earn a smirk for that one, but Bucky won’t even look at him.

“ _ We  _ won’t hurt you,” Clint pipes up, before Bucky can reply. His voice is oddly cheery for the dark words he says. “You’ll be safe...for the next half hour or so. After that, it’s open season.” 

The conviction in all their voices made Steve’s heart pick up, but all he could think about was getting back home, to Sam, getting back to work, to Peggy. Back to normalcy. 

He supposed in their line of work, you  _ had  _ to be suspicious of everyone. But for Steve...well, he tended towards optimism. He hoped-- _ believed-- _ that everything would work itself out.

“ _ Oh _ -kay,” Steve clears his throat, taking a few steps towards the door. “Be careful with those stitches,” Steve warns Bucky sternly. 

Bucky levels him with a tortured gaze, like he physically couldn’t watch Steve walk out the doors. 

“Clean it twice a day for the first few days and monitor for any sign of infection--Vaseline, too, like we talked about. If it rips open again, come to the hospital. I’ll be discreet, make sure no one asks questions, yeah? It’s better than letting it fester or get infected.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. 

“You ready?” Clint calls, one hand on the door. His expression is also hard to read. 

“Yes,” Steve turns over his shoulder as he walks out. Natasha is scowling at him, looking thoroughly disappointed. Bucky, though, Bucky’s face haunts Steve. It’s alive with regret, anger, frustration. “Uh--goodbye.” 

“Take care of yourself,” Bucky says in a grave voice. It sounds like a warning. 

“You, too,” Steve says awkwardly, a beat too late. 

Then he turns on his heel and follows Clint out the door. 

Steve feels good about his decision, about going home, back to the normal life he had waiting for him. 

Later, he’d think back bitterly on this blind optimism, laugh at how he thought he’d walk away from that fateful night unscathed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your continued support!! I hope both sides of your pillow are cold tonight. I hope you remember to be gentle with yourself. Sending out good vibes and hugs to everyone <3 you are worthy of rest and nourishment, your body is powerful and you are strong. 
> 
> See you in the next one :)


	5. i only want you next to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve takes the subway every day. He keeps his head down, he doesn’t make eye contact. He keeps his cell phone close, he keeps it fully charged. 
> 
> He doesn’t look up, doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. 
> 
> He doesn’t even notice, on the fifth day, while walking home after a long shift, the man, dressed in jeans and a dark sweatshirt, watching him with a cold stare from across the street. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end of chapter notes for warnings <3

_Black out_   
_The night before inside of my mouth_   
_Too much, it's what I like to do now_   
_My mind explodes and I can't make it out_   
_I'm falling down_

_I see your face and blurry shades_   
_And I reach out for your hand_   
_All your ways, I can't explain_   
_But I want to understand_

_For love_   
_I only want you next to me_   
_Sweet love_   
_How long before you hurt for me, hurt for me?_   
_Do you hurt for me?_

"Hurt for Me", SYML

* * *

When Clint drops him off a block away from his apartment, Steve’s head is pounding something awful, and his mind is racing with the to-do list. He barely hears Clint bid him goodbye, hardly registers the roar of the engine as the black SUV speeds away. 

He had too much to do. 

He’d need a new cell-phone, and some sort of self-defence weapon, and probably a security system for the apartment, just to be safe-- 

But--he’d be okay. He had to be. The worst of it was over. 

_Right?_

Sam is there when he unlocks their apartment door and pushes his way inside, pacing the floor by the window. When Steve clears his throat, Sam stills as if he hadn’t noticed Steve coming in; perhaps he’d been too lost in his own thoughts. 

Their eyes lock, and Sam’s gaze zeroes in on Steve. A moment of silence hangs between them, before Sam comes to life. 

“Steve!” He barks, rushing towards him, his eyes scanning for injury. “What the hell? You didn’t come home last night, man, and the hospital said you’d left at your normal time--is that _blood?_ What? What happened to your face? You get in another fight?” 

Steve’s hand reaches up to his face self consciously, a delayed reaction, as if his mind is operating around a foggy haze. He’d forgotten what he must look like to Sam, what the situation must look like. Not coming home last night after work, showing up the next morning unannounced, bloodied and bruised, with deep bags under his eyes. Sam had probably tried calling and texting him numerous times as well. 

Steve grimaces, thinking about the mangled hunk of technology Natasha has presented to him, that had once been his phone. 

“I’m fine,” He replies weakly, biting down on his bottom lip to keep it from trembling. He’d been strong this entire time, had held it together as best he could, but with those wide, familiar eyes looking at him with such concern, Steve feels his resolve breaking. 

“Steve?” Sam asks urgently. “C’mon, man, what the hell happened?” 

“I,” Steve takes a deep breath, and then collapses into sobs, broken, ugly sounds escaping his chest. 

That only makes Sam worry more. He rushes to his roommate and gathers Steve up in his arms. Sam smells like their laundry detergent and his arms is a familiar and safe place to be. Steve sags into his embrace, feeling the weight of the last few hours settle on his shoulders. 

“I--” He tries again, and Sam’s hand pats soothingly at his back. “I’m okay.” 

“I think we’ve established that isn’t the case,” Sam blows out a long breath. “Take your time, breathe. Then you can tell me everything.” 

Steve does tell Sam everything. 

He starts with Peggy’s comment, which had led to him walking home to embrace the early sunrise--he ends with James Barnes making him pancakes and sending him out the door with a grave warning to be careful. 

Sam listens patiently at first, but when Steve gets to the part about Bucky, he tugs free of Steve’s embrace to pace some more, and his features get more and more taut, as he stomps the length of their living room.

“There,” Steve says in a small voice, when it’s all out, “That’s all of it.” 

Sam stops pacing to stare at him, long and hard. A heavy silence sits between them as they stare each other down, before Sam breaks first, letting out a long breath and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“I leave you alone for what? Less than _ten hours,_ and you come back with a proposition from a mafia lord about being his fake mob-wife?” 

Steve sighs, but he should have expected the reaction; it was very _Sam_ of him. “I _told_ you I turned him down.” 

Sam opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He scrubs a hand over his short hair and then shrugs helplessly. “Well...Maybe you shouldn’t have.” 

_That_ wasn’t the response Steve had expected to hear. 

“Sam,” He laughs incredulously, “It’s _James Barnes._ He’s all over the news, he’s--he’s a criminal. A killer.” 

He didn’t want to talk about the gentle tone Bucky had used to speak to him, about how soft his bed had been when he woke up in it, about the way Bucky trusted him to pick at his fresh wound, to heal him. He didn’t want to talk about the pancakes, or the crooked smile he’d earned. None of it mattered, it didn't change anything. 

“But this Rumlow guy,” Sam points out matter-of-factly, “Is a criminal too. And he _actively_ wants to kill you.” 

“ _Allegedly._ ” 

“Steve,” Sam nearly growls. “Please be serious.” 

“I am!” Steve cries, his throat hoarse from his earlier sobs. “This is scary, Sam, you don’t think I know that? I had a gun p-pressed to my head! He _wants_ to kill me, maybe. _Maybe._ Doesn’t mean he’s definitely going to kill me, doesn’t mean he’s going to go through the trouble of tracking me down and getting me alone. I have a _chance_.” 

“Oh, you’re just going to evade him by sheer willpower? How very _Steve_ of you.” 

Steve scowls, fighting the urge to stomp his foot out of frustration. 

“I think Bucky--uh, Barnes,” Steve corrects, not wanting Sam to think that he’d gotten closer than normal to Bucky in the time he spent with him--he _hadn’t_. “Barnes was exaggerating. Making Rumlow seem more invested in my death than he really is.” 

“Why would he willingly want to spend his time and resources fake-dating you? I mean, what benefit does he get?”

Steve tries not to be offended by that. “Maybe he just wants more publicity in general? Maybe he wants to be more socially progressive, bein’ pictured with a twink on his arm or something?” 

Sam rolls his eyes, clearly not buying that excuse. “Or _maybe_ you really are in danger, Steve. And maybe, to repay you for saving his life, Barnes just wants to make sure you don’t end up dead in some Brooklyn alleyway.” 

Steve chews on his bottom lip, knowing that what Sam was suggesting was probably true; there was more than a craving for good PR in the tortured way Bucky had watched him walk out. There was an underlying sense of responsibility for Steve’s safety, a guilt, maybe. There had definitely been guilt when Bucky had touched the cut on his forehead, had watched his fingers come away tinged with Steve’s blood. “So you think I should have taken him up on it?” 

“I don’t know. Seems better than the alternative.” 

“You’re putting a lot of trust into a stranger with a terrible reputation.” 

“Maybe,” Sam concedes, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m scared, man. I’m not here a lot, and what if something happens? And I can’t protect you?” 

“It’s not your _job_ to protect me,” Steve snaps. He knows his tone is too harsh, knows that Sam’s just trying to look out for Steve the way he’d considered himself doing the entire past three years they’d known each other. But Steve had felt powerless enough in the past 24 hours. He wants to feel strong. “I don’t need your help, or Barnes’, or anyones. I can look after myself.” 

Sam doesn’t look the slightest bit offended or upset by Steve’s words or tone. Instead, he levels Steve with a knowing look. 

“Right. So,” Sam grumbles, squinting down at him. “Just so I understand: You’re on the run from the mafia?” 

Steve waves a dismissing hand over his shoulder, heading to his bedroom. He needed a nap. A long one, with his weighted blanket, his silk pillowcase. He needed the familiar, the comfortable. He needed a shower, to wash that whiskey-vanilla scent from his skin, to make the evening feel more like a dream. 

“Not exactly,” Steve yawns, touching the cut on his forehead absently, his other hand on the doorknob of his bathroom. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was going to live his life, Rumlow be damned. “I never said anything about _running.”_

***

Exhausted, and weary, and a bit shaken up, Steve does drag his ass out of bed just in time to trek to his shift that night. He combs his hair so that it falls forward on his forehead more to cover the majority of his scrape, and he takes the subway, heading Bucky’s advice to stay in the public eye. He gets a new phone, sets up with the important contacts; he realizes, too late, that even if he _did_ want to change his mind, he didn’t have Bucky’s number. He’d have to march himself up to the penthouse by Crave Cafe and demand to speak to Bucky himself if he wanted to go back on what he’d originally asked for. 

But despite all he’d been through, Steve didn’t feel like he was actively being chased. It was easy to block out any uneasy feeling he had, in favour of pretending that everything was okay. It was much more peaceful that way. 

The next five days continue like this: A pattern, a routine. Steve didn’t realize, then, that a public pattern was even more dangerous than a solitary route that changed each day. 

Patterns could be traced. Memorized. Traps could be set. It was too predictable. 

Peggy isn’t lucid when Steve sees her next, but it doesn’t make him as sad as it normally would. She muses about the day the war ends, and about brave soldiers. He doesn’t have to tell her about his “adventure”, he just tugs her weathered hand into his and rubs slow circles there, until she talks about sunsets and oceans, until her eyelids close and her breathing evens out. 

" _Rest, Pegs,”_ He tells her, tugging the blanket up around her chin, “ _Maybe you’ll see me tomorrow.”_

Steve takes the subway every day. He keeps his head down, he doesn’t make eye contact. He keeps his cell phone close, he keeps it fully charged. 

He doesn’t look up, doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. 

He doesn’t even notice, on the fifth day, while walking home after a long shift, the man, dressed in jeans and a dark sweatshirt, watching him with a cold stare from across the street. 

***

“I don’t believe it,” Bucky hisses through clenched teeth. Every muscle in his body was coiled, aching for action, for use. This stillness was torture. “ _Find him_.” 

“I _told_ you, I called the hospital,” Clint mutters in a small voice, “Steve didn’t make it to his shift this morning.” 

“Dammit!” With an angry swipe of his hand, Bucky knocks the lamp from his desk and watches as it shatters into a million crystal pieces on the marble floor. It gives him some kind of dark satisfaction, to destroy. To ruin. “They _fucking_ got him. _Fuck_.” 

“He could have called in sick,” Natasha is trying to reason with him, but Bucky won’t have it. He levels her a venomous glare, which does nothing to phase her; she’s seen it all. “This doesn’t necessarily mean the worst-case scenario, James.” 

“ _Find him_ ,” He demands again, his hands curled into tight fists. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted Steve. He’d had Clint call in to one of the doctors that Barnes had in his pocket there at the hospital each day, for reassurance that Steve had made it into his shift. He knew it was wrong, that he was prying. He didn’t care. He had to know if Steve, stubborn, fearless little Steve, if he was _alive._ He couldn’t stand the thought of him suffering at Rumlow’s hands. Each day, the doctor had confirmed that Steve had arrived to his shift on time, had worked his full shift, and then headed home. But today--today Steve hadn't arrived to the hospital. Bucky assumed the worst. “I want him safe.” 

“Boss,” Clint begins helplessly, “Who knows what could have happened between his last shift and this one. It might be too late--”

“I wasn’t _fucking asking!”_ Bucky roars, wheeling on him with a fire in his eyes. His mind was conjuring up images of the brave, wiry stranger who’d saved his life, tied and gagged and bleeding, to Rumlow’s delight. _Because_ he’d stepped in for Bucky. _Because_ he’d saved _Bucky. Bleeding for that._ He couldn’t stomach it. 

“Okay. Alright, just. I’ll get a hold of Pierce, see if he knows where Rumlow is,” Natasha says in a quick rush of words. “We’ll figure it out.” 

“If Pierce feels like talking,” Clint mutters, but silences after Bucky shoots him a sharp glare. 

“I don’t care _what_ you have to do,” Bucky growls, pacing the floor. “Talk to Pierce, tell him Steve is _mine,_ tell him whatever you have to. He didn’t show up at work, he’s out there somewhere. The doctor said he was scheduled to work today. Get the others. _Find him._ And don’t let me see your face until you know where he is.” 

“Yessir,” Clint swears, and slips out the door without another word, always Bucky’s most loyal soldier. Natasha tucks her gun into her thigh holster and gives Bucky a firm nod, before she follows Clint out the door. She’s always been logical, practical. She didn’t let her emotions get in the way of the job, and Bucky was normally the same way--he wasn’t accustomed to this blind panic that clutched at his chest. 

But with Steve, it was different. Something in him had clicked together when Steve’s cold fingers prodded as his wound. Something had warmed when Steve’s blue eyes met his own. 

_He had to be safe._

Bucky knew too well how big of a city New York was. Rumlow could have Steve _anywhere_. 

Bucky turns on his heel as soon as he’s alone, staring out the window that overlooked the city skyline, as if scanning the streets below would give him some hint as to where the fiery blond was. 

Steve was out there somewhere, alive or dead, possibly hurt and bleeding, scared out of his mind, because of the bravery he’d shown towards Bucky. Because he’d done Bucky a kindness he hadn’t deserved. 

When was the last time Bucky had shown anyone the mercy, the compassion, that Steve had shown to him? 

He couldn’t remember. 

Steve had shoved his way into that alley like some kind of avenging angel. Bucky knew he’d remember that image for the rest of his life; the fire behind those blue eyes, the streetlight illuminating Steve’s golden hair like some kind of halo, the way his voice didn’t shake as he demanded for Rumlow to stop. 

He’d probably never even seen a gun up close, yet he never stopped fighting. And when Natasha had pointed a gun at Rumlow...Steve had even stood up for the man who’d threatened his life. 

He was a true peacekeeper. Bucky hardly knew him, yet he recognized something about the light that shone through from Steve’s soul. It was like a balm to Bucky’s darkness. A guiding light. 

For selfish reasons, Bucky wanted Steve back where he knew the man would be safe. So he wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of Steve’s death, for one. 

But also...but also because that light was addicting. To be near Steve was to feel it, radiating out of him. That stubborn commitment to morality. 

Bucky didn’t believe in angels, or god, or any kind of afterlife once death finally took over. But Steve had been wearing a golden cross around his neck, and although Bucky hadn’t commented on it, he wondered now, if Steve was praying. If he believed God would save him. 

Just three blocks away, under the light of the Brooklyn moon, Steven Grant Rogers spits out a mouthful of blood and heaves with aching lungs, fighting for his life. 

“You look pretty with a bit of blood on those pink lips,” Rumlow purrs, grabbing Steve’s chin and forcing the man to meet his eyes. “Now. Let me hear you scream.” 

When the knife presses to his throat, Steve does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: brief mentions of torture [Rumlow holds a knife to Steve's throat].


	6. into my arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve can’t believe it--he won’t believe it. Rumlow has Steve’s blood on his hands, caked under his fingernails. He isn’t going anywhere with him, not without a fight. 
> 
> He has to get away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: canon-typical descriptions of torture / fear of dying / being held captive for a few hours

_I don't believe in an interventionist God_   
_But I know, darling, that you do_   
_But if I did I would kneel down and ask Him_   
_Not to intervene when it came to you_   
_Not to touch a hair on your head_   
_To leave you as you are_   
_And if He felt He had to direct you_   
_Then direct you into my arms_

_Into my arms, O Lord_   
_Into my arms, O Lord_   
_Into my arms, O Lord_   
_Into my arms_

_And I don't believe in the existence of angels_   
_But looking at you I wonder if that's true_   
_But if I did I would summon them together_   
_And ask them to watch over you_   
_To each burn a candle for you_   
_To make bright and clear your path_   
_And to walk, like Christ, in grace and love_   
_And guide you into my arms_

_ "Into my Arms", Nick Cave. _

* * *

“Had enough yet?” Rumlow laughs, a deep, guttural sound. “You ready to talk?” His hands caress Steve’s face gently, at first, before gripping his jaw and holding his face still, as he rears back and knees Steve hard in the chest.

Steve takes the crushing blow to his ribs, sending the air hissing out of his lungs against his will, though he manages to stay otherwise silent. He wouldn’t give Rumlow the satisfaction of hearing him scream, not anymore. 

His throat was hoarse from screaming, and he’d noticed how much Rumlow had delighted in it.

The knife was tucked away for now, Rumlow apparently preferred a more hands-on approach, and it was easier to keep quiet when he was receiving punches and blows. It was much more challenging not to scream when the knife had pressed to the hollow of his throat, or when it had carved a line into his chest, shallow enough to draw only a thin line of blood, but effective as a reminder; Steve wasn’t the one in power here. Rumlow was. 

His body arches in on itself, trying to protect his internal organs, trying to suck air back into his chest. It’s a feeble attempt; he can’t manage a lungful of air without a painful ache in his rib cage. 

The moonlight streaming in through the broken basement windows highlights the manic blaze in Rumlows eyes, reminding Steve just how dangerous this situation really was--Rumlow wouldn’t stop.

Steve fights against his restraints again, but it’s futile. The rope burns his wrists and ankles, but allows him no room to wiggle free, the basement was empty except for his chair and there were no signs of life anywhere in the room. 

He was alone. No one would be coming to save him here. 

“This is all just a b-big mistake,” Steve tries weakly. How long had he been here already? An hour? Two? It felt like forever since he’d left his apartment and headed for the subway to get to his shift, forever since that hooded figure had grabbed him.

When he didn’t show up to work, what would they do, really? His supervisor knew that he’d been having a rough time this past week, maybe she’d chalk it up to him being tired? Oversleeping? Taking a sick day and forgetting to call in? 

Would  _ anyone _ look for him? 

Did Steve  _ want  _ anyone to look for him? After all, interfering with Rumlow’s business is how  _ he  _ ended up tied to a chair in the basement of some off-brand convenience store anyway. 

He didn’t want that for anyone else. Especially not Sam. 

There was no one to help him but himself; he had to figure out a way to survive this. For Sam. For his mother. For the things he still had left to do in his life. 

“I wanna know who got in my way--who you  _ work for _ . Barnes and I were negotiating, until you interrupted,” Rumlow hisses, gearing up for another punch. “Was it Stark? Huh?” 

Steve’s lips bleed freely, and he’s pretty sure his rib is bruised, maybe even cracked. He’s definitely concussed, and his right eye is nearly swollen shut. The world around him moves in slow, blurry still shots. It all sounds and looks...far away. 

The pain, though. The pain is real, and white-hot. He feels it  _ all _ . He tries to channel it, to use it to focus on so he’d be able to fight the unconsciousness that threatened around the edges of his vision as his body tried to protect itself from  _ feeling.  _

“G-Get--away from me--” As Rumlow stalks closer, Steve struggles hard against his restraints, trying to tug himself free in vain effort. Rumlow takes delight in the struggle, delight in having Steve bound and helpless. Steve feels the moment when the rope finally breaks skin, the rough material rubbing his wrists raw. Blood flows down his fingers, making them sticky. “I don’t k-know  _ anything.”  _

“Stop lying _ ,”  _ Rumlow hisses, kicking Steve hard in the stomach. “I’ve got  _ all night,  _ Steve. How long do you have? Hm? How long until your little body gives up?” 

Pain explodes at the point of contact, making Steve’s ears ring out. He’s bound to the chair and his restraints keep him from falling completely forward, but he sags heavily against the ties, the fight slipping out of him. 

“Oh?” Rumlow grins ear to ear, his rough hands grabbing for the thin gold chain around Steve’s neck. “Religious, are we? Well. Where is that God of yours now, huh?” 

Steve grinds his teeth together. He hated the thought of his necklace in Rumlow’s rough hands; it was his mothers, she’d never taken it off her person since Steve’s father gave it to her before he went overseas. It was his most precious possession. 

“He’s w-watching,” Steve growls, forcing his swollen eyes to meet Rumlow’s. “And you’ll get whatever hell you have coming to you eventually.”

“And you’ll get eternal rest? In...heaven?” Rumlow laughs, throwing his head back as he does, but he also drops the necklace from his grip, and Steve is relieved. “That is  _ adorable.”  _

“I’ll get whatever I deserve,” Steve croaks. “S’not for me to judge what that is.” 

“Such  _ faith _ ,” Rumlow chuckles. “Is that why you felt the need to interrupt my business? You were just being a good samaritan?” 

Before Steve can open his mouth to reply  _ yes, finally you get it! _ , he’s struck by a fit of violent, chest-heaving coughs. The basement was riddled with dust and debris, making his already exhausted lungs work overtime. 

Rumlow takes his coughing as non-compliance, as Steve wheezes to suck in a helpful breath. 

“Right, well. I’m going to go for a walk,” Rumlow says, very slowly and deliberately, like he’s talking to a child, “And when I come back, if you still don’t feel like talking, then we’re going to have a  _ big  _ problem.” 

“Ain’t scared of you,” Steve manages to rasp out, the words barely audible over his wheezing and coughing--but of course, Rumlow hears. 

Rumlow grabs Steve’s chin and forces it up, forces Steve to look at him. 

“You will be. You’re pretty,” Rumlow sighs regretfully, his eyes sparkling with relish. “It really is too bad I’m going to have to ruin that face of yours. Make you unrecognizable.”

Steve spits out a mouthful of blood and saliva, right in Rumlow’s face. 

The man blinks, startled, and then grabs Steve’s throat in a vice-like grip, the previous glee on his face being overwritten by pure, violent rage. The blood and saliva drips down Rumlow’s face as his gaze burns a hole in Steve’s skull. 

Immediately, Steve’s airway is cut off, and he can feel his body begin to panic. 

He tries to think rationally--if Rumlow really wants information, he won’t kill him like this, in a fit of rage--right? But then again, how rational was Rumlow really? 

Not very. Not at all. And if he believes Steve really  _ doesn’t  _ know anything valuable, like Steve had been trying to convince him, Steve’s life is even less important to him. 

Rumlow won’t stop until Steve’s dead. 

Steve’s hands are tied behind his back, he can’t use them to break himself free. Instead he just wheezes and coughs and feels his vision go black. 

He’s completely at Rumlow’s mercy, and he feels it, right down to his bones. He knows Rumlow feels it too. 

There was no question about who had the power in this situation.

“Ah,” Rumlow sighs, squeezing hard one last time before he releases Steve, watching with a dark satisfaction while Steve wheezes and coughs, gasping for air, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. “You look so pretty on the brink of death, Steve. I wonder how many times we can get you there.” 

Steve doesn’t have the strength to reply, he’s too busy trying to suck air back into his deprived lungs. 

“See you soon,” Rumlow turns on his heel and disappears up the rickety stairs, leaving Steve alone.

It was to give him hope, Steve would realize later, when things were safe again. Rumlow left, over and over again, to give Steve  _ hope.  _ Hope that he might escape, that Rumlow might not come back. He revelled in that look on Steve’s face, when he strolled back in with some new instrument of torture. A knife, a gun to press to Steve’s temple, his fists. 

Each time he left, hope swelled in Steve’s chest and soared high. He struggled extra hard against restraints that had no give, he fought hard against the unconsciousness that threatened around the edges of every moment. 

And each time, Rumlow came back, leaving Steve a little more deflated than he had the last time. 

He should have known, should have realized the hooded figure following him on the train. It had only been five days since Steve had first crossed paths with Rumlow, and he’d found Steve easily enough. He’d waited for his chance, until Steve was alone. He’d attacked quickly, with conviction. 

“You’re--making a mistake,” Steve spits out a mouthful of blood, around the fourth time Rumlow returned after a brief intermission. 

“Oh?” Rumlow gets to his knees before Steve and grabs a fistful of Steve’s hair, gripping it hard between his fingers. “That so?” 

Steve forces himself to meet those dark eyes, to not let Rumlow see any fear in his own. He sticks his chin up defiantly. 

He sees that they’re full of pleasure, delight. 

Rumlow was getting off on the pain he inflicted. 

“Sick bastard,” Steve laughs around bloody teeth. “You’re gonna die alone.” 

“So are you,” Rumlow twirls a knife in his hands, watching the way it glitters in the sunlight. 

Steve wants to be able to say that in his last moments, he was brave. But he doesn’t  _ feel  _ brave. He’s terrified, and broken. 

He feels small. 

“He’ll come for you,” Steve wheezes, a dark, broken promise--and as soon as he says it, he knows it’s true. Bucky would get word eventually that he’d been killed. From what Steve knew, Rumlow, Pierce, and Bucky all did business together on a frequent basis. 

When Bucky found out that Rumlow tortured and killed him, he would avenge Steve. It wouldn’t be personal, really, but a matter of honor. Bucky had said he was a man of honor--Steve had saved his life, so he’d avenge Steve’s. Part of that was darkly satisfying to Steve, it resonated through the thick fog of pain. 

“Who?” Rumlow presses the knife into Steve’s throat again, but this is an old song and dance, and Steve knows he won’t cut deep enough to kill. Not yet. He’s got Rumlow where he wants him. “Who will come for me?” 

“He’ll make you pay,” Steve struggled to remember the term Bucky had used, and then he grinned at Rumlow with bloody teeth, “ _ Tenfold _ .” 

“ _ Who? _ ” Rumlow growls, and punches Steve  _ hard  _ across the cheek, the force of it causing the chair to rock back up on two legs, Steve’s cheek splitting open. 

He feels the hot liquid pour out--his blood. The edges of his vision go blurry and dark, and for a moment, he’s sure he’s about to go unconscious. 

He fights it hard, though. He had to stay awake. He had to think.  _ How could he get away?  _ At what point would Rumlow stop? 

Would he keep going until the stubborn heave of Steve’s chest gave out? 

Would this be the way that Steve dies? 

_ No.  _ He still had some fight left in him. 

If Rumlow was going to kill him anyways, Steve wouldn’t go down without a fight. He owed his Ma that much, she had made him in love, had laboured and worked her whole life so that  _ his  _ life had laughter, had meaning. He owed it to  _ her  _ to fight.

“He’ll hunt you to the ends o-of the earth,” Steve rasps, the idea coming to him as he spoke. The world spun and tilted around him, and he could barely manage to wheeze in a breath, but he forced his voice to be strong as he could. “I’m  _ his _ . I belong t-to Bucky.” 

That makes Rumlow hesitate, suspicion written clearly on his face. The pressure of the knife against the hollow of his throat releases, just a bit, but it’s enough that Steve feels it, even over the roar of agony. It feels like a victory, even if it’s a small one. 

“You work for Barnes?” 

“I don’t w- _ work  _ for him,” Steve tries to make the lie sound convincing, “I am  _ his.  _ His boyfriend. Actually, I’m h-his whole fucking w- _ world. _ ” 

Rumlow gapes, staring at Steve like the puzzle pieces just clicked together right before his eyes. 

At the very same time, Rumlow’s phone rings, a shrill sound that makes Rumlow grunt in agitation, though his hands pat his pockets furiously and press the phone to his ear. 

“Sir,” Rumlow grunts into the receiver. He listens for a few seconds, then his eyes slide over to Steve. “Yes, I do.” 

He listens again for a few more moments, and then his gaze gets wide, his lips turning white. “W-What? No, he...Barnes hasn’t said anything about--”

There is a sharp male voice on the other hand. Rumlow is standing incredibly still, the shock so clearly written all over his face. 

Steve couldn’t care enough to make out what exactly was being said, he knew only that he had to use this hesitation to his advantage. 

“Okay, I will. I will,” Rumlow agrees quickly, “He’s still alive. If we keep him that way, Barnes might be more forgiving--”

Steve sees his opening. Rumlow is close, now--he could do it.

With all the strength left in his body, Steve rears back and headbutts Rumlow  _ hard,  _ his own forehead exploding in pain--he tucks that pain away, uses it to fuel his adrenaline. 

He has only one shot to get this right, he can’t hesitate or hold back. 

The surge takes Rumlow by surprise, and he tips off balance, staggering to the side. 

Steve throws his body violently to the right, landing heavily on top of the rickety wooden chair and splintering it. 

_ Yes! _

Rumlow is beginning to get to his feet, but Steve still has a few seconds. 

Precious seconds. 

The broken legs of the chair let him free his feet, the rope coming loose, and he quickly saws his hands together to wiggle them free, which was much easier to do--the blood from his wrists made his hands slippery. In a few moments, he’s free, his shoulders aching as he flexes his fingers and tugs his arms back around in front of his body. With his hands, Steve wasn’t as helpless. He could get away.

“Fucker,” Rumlow growls, lunging for him. 

_ No.  _

“Stay back!” Steve cries. He spots the glittering blade of the knife that Rumlow had been using and he scoops it up before Rumlow can recover it. He holds it out, a warning.  _ Don’t come any closer.  _ “I’m  _ his!  _ I’m--y-you can’t hurt me anymore!” 

“Pierce will want to speak with you,” Rumlow hisses, “Just come with me. We can figure it all out. A trade. I won’t hurt you anymore.” 

Steve can’t believe it--he  _ won’t  _ believe it. Rumlow has Steve’s blood on his hands, caked under his fingernails. He isn’t going anywhere with him, not without a fight. 

He has to get away.

“Don’t,” he pleads, his voice cracking, “ _ Don’t.”  _

But Rumlow doesn’t listen. He advances, pure determination and a little bit of fear on his face, his bloody hands outstretched towards Steve. 

Steve can’t think, or hesitate; there isn’t time. 

When Rumlow rushes him, he thrusts the knife in an upwards motion, using the little bit of strength he had left. 

It plunges into Rumlow’s side, the fleshy part between the bones of his rib cage, nestling in there. 

With a soft grunt of pain, Rumlow collapses to his knees, clutching the wound, then falls to his face without control, rasping out some kind of swear word that Steve didn’t recognize. Russian, maybe. 

Steve staggers back a few feet, gaping at the pooling blood around Rumlow’s body but forcing himself to look away

It didn’t matter. What matters is that Rumlow was down, and Steve could escape. Without looking back, he tugs himself onto a broken stool, then out the partially shattered basement window, onto the street. 

He hardly feels the broken glass as it drags across his skin--the taste of clean night air was too refreshing, too reassuring.  _ He’s free.  _

The streets are quiet--Steve has no idea what time it is, or how long had passed since Rumlow had first snatched him--he’d taken Steve’s phone, once again. He had no money, he didn’t want to go to a hospital, didn’t want to have to explain to anyone what trauma he’d endured. 

The sun isn’t up yet, and the sidewalks were empty. As he staggers down the street, bloodied and exhausted, he feels like the last man on earth. 

Where is he? Where had Rumlow taken him? 

As he scrapes along the street, leaning heavily on the buildings for support, Steve tries desperately to get a sense of his surroundings.

It seems like a lost cause, until he looks to his right, a block down--the corner store there, across the street, is familiar. 

_ Think, Steve,  _ he urges himself through the fog of pain and exhaustion. He knew that store, had gone in there at least once or twice, and had passed it countless times before then...but thinking logically feels impossible.  _ Where are you.  _

Then--there, across from him: a bookstore he’s _ sure _ he’d been to before.  _ Yes!  _

He knew exactly where he was. The old VA building Sam used to work at was only just down the street, though it would be closed now--

Crave Cafe, Steve realizes, is only a couple blocks away, and the penthouse,  _ Bucky’s  _ penthouse, is right across the street from the cafe. 

He’s so relieved he could cry.  _ Bucky. He just has to get to Bucky.  _

He could stumble along, he could make it. With a deep breath that feels like fire to his lungs as he inhales, Steve steels himself, and keeps going. 

The streets are a blur, but he knows the general area, and he knows that coffee shop by Bucky’s penthouse; it was only a few blocks from here, he could focus on that, and he could keep pushing. All he had to do was make it there, and then he’d be safe. Bucky would know what to do. 

At the very least, Bucky would protect him, would give him a place to rest until he could figure out his next move. He owed Steve that much. 

Steve isn’t sure if Rumlow had friends with him or not, so he moves quickly, only stopping a few times to lean on the buildings to catch his breath. 

_ To Bucky,  _ he kept telling himself, through the fog of pain and misery and fear.  _ To safety.  _ It’s just enough to keep going. 

***

While focusing on that, and nothing else, Steve somehow makes it. 

It feels like forever, that slow, painful trek...but he’d done it. He’d fought the exhaustion, the Brooklyn moon on his back and the chill of the devil at his spine, urging him along. 

He stumbles into the lobby of Bucky’s building, and despite his bloody and exhausted state, reception doesn’t spare him a glance--Steve supposes they saw a lot more interesting things than the likes of him, with Barnes running an illegal crime empire from the top floor and all. They’re no doubt paid off not to blink at sights like Steve, beaten to a pulp. 

He pushes the uppermost button and then leaves heavily against the side, panting hard. Where he touches the numbers, he leaves a smear of blood. 

Rumlow could be following him, for all he knows, or anyone else. He has to get to safety. And he is almost there.

He pointedly doesn’t look in the mirrors. He doesn’t want to know what he looks like now. He knows he won’t recognize the man staring back at him. 

He just has to keep breathing. He’ll be safe soon. Bucky will protect him. 

After what feels like an endless upwards jaunt, the motion finally stops, and the door opens. 

“Who is--” Bucky’s voice, startled, greets Steve on the other side. “ _ Steve?”  _

Steve stumbles forward out of the elevator blindly, crashing hard into a solid chest. He thinks he hears Bucky tuck a gun back into his belt and click the safety back on, but he can’t be sure.

“Sorry,” Steve wheezes, because he can’t think of anything else to say. 

“Jesus,” Bucky breathes. He’s close enough that his whiskey breath washes over Steve. It’s much nicer than Rumlow’s rancid breath, as he’d  _ laughed  _ and  _ hurt and laughed-- _ “Steve, c’mere,” 

He doesn’t think too hard about it, just lets Bucky support his weight when those strong arms come around him. He sags heavily into that solid body. A rock. An anchor. 

Bucky can handle his weight, can handle the weight of what’s happened here tonight. Steve doesn’t have to shoulder it alone. 

Steve made it. He’s  _ safe.  _

“I’m s-sorry,” Steve pants, letting his head fall forward into Bucky’s neck. He’s too tired to hold it up any longer. His body hums with exhaustion and agony. He’s bruised and bleeding, terrified and traumatized, and trembling all over. “I-I didn’t know where else to go.” 

Bucky’s body is stiff for a moment, maybe out of horror, maybe out of a shock, but Steve feels the moment that the stiffness gives way to tenderness. 

Bucky’s body deflates a little, and his arms wrap softly around Steve, bending to pluck Steve from the ground as if it were as effortless as breathing. Steve feels his feet leave the floor belatedly, and he doesn’t care. 

He is at Bucky’s mercy, just as he’d been at Rumlow’s mercy. The difference is, some part of Steve, as unfounded as it was,  _ trusts  _ Bucky. He trusts this dangerous stranger to keep him safe. 

“Okay,” Bucky says softly. His voice sounds far away. He carries Steve, bridal style, somewhere--it doesn’t matter where, really. His chest is warm and solid against Steve, and Steve feels the rise of it with every breath, reminding his own lungs to suck in air. He’s with Bucky, Rumlow can’t get to him. Rumlow can’t touch him here. “Okay, Steve. You’re safe, doll. You’re safe. Easy, okay? I’ve got you. Rest.” 

_ Yes,  _ Steve thinks, a relieved tear slipping out of his swollen eye, as if the permission to let go of the weight of what had happened was all he’d needed. It trails down his face to mingle with the blood on his lip. He wraps his bruised arms around Bucky’s neck.  _ Safe.  _

***

Bucky tugs a recliner close to his California king bed after he gets Steve tucked in, leaving the curtains open so that the moonlight would light up the room just enough for Bucky to notice the slight furrow in Steve’s brow, even as he sleeps. 

He watches Steve the whole night, listening for the ragged wheeze of his breathing, thinking of all the ways he would make Rumlow suffer. 

_ I’ve got him,  _ he texts Natasha and Clint.  _ He’s safe. At the penthouse with me.  _ They could stop their search. Steve had found  _ him  _ first. Steve had looked for  _ him.  _ Searched him out. 

If he brushes his finger tips to Steve’s bloodied knuckles, if he tugs the blanket up tighter to Steve’s chin...well. That was between him and a God he didn’t believe in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi lovelies!! I just wanted to check in here and say THANK YOU for all of the amazing comments I've been receiving on this fic. I wish you could see the little happy dance i do whenever I get a comment notification!!! 
> 
> I hope you are remembering to be gentle with yourself. Sit up a little taller, take a deep breath, and remember how many years your soul had to travel just to find the PERFECT host body for you!! So treat that body with respect!!   
> If no one else has told you so today, I love you <3 
> 
> See you next week!!   
> xoxo


	7. lay your small body by mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re safe, honey,” Bucky breathes, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Let it out. You’re safe here.” 

_Won't you hang your coat_   
_By mine_   
_The rest of you falls_   
_To the morning sun light_   
_As it creeps along the bedroom floor_   
_Towards the window outside_   
_Before the birds rise_   
_You'll be mine_   
_You'll be mine_

_So lay you small body_   
_By mine_   
_Oh wont you lay your small body_   
_By mine_

_So dusty this road_   
_Covered in stones_   
_Leads to that small house_   
_That this love calls home_   
_And you must have tried a thousand times_   
_To speak these words_   
_Forever lost inside_   
_Away from the cruel world_   
_But I can read them in your eyes_   
_So lay your small body_   
_By mine_

\- "Small Body", Nick Cunningham

* * *

It’s hours later before Steve moves--finally stirring and coughing a little, a frown coming over his features. 

He makes a broken sound, disturbing the otherwise comfortable silence that had gathered in Bucky’s bedroom. 

Bucky immediately jumps to attention, leaning over Steve, his hands fluttering uselessly. He hadn’t noticed the faint sweat that had broken out over Steve’s brow-- _ he should have noticed that.  _ Steve is probably in a world of pain. Bucky’s own wound, just days old, throbs in sympathy. 

Steve had taken care of him then, he would take care of Steve now. As long as he needed. 

“Steve,” Bucky rushes out, as Steve gains awareness. His voice seems loud, even to his own ears; he’s not used to feeling so awkward, so unsure. He clears his throat and tries again, “Hey--Hey, easy, doll. It’s me--it’s Bucky, you’re okay.” 

Steve’s eyes are wild and unfocused when they snap open, darting around the bedroom with a glaze of fear. It makes Bucky a little sick, the thought of Steve being afraid of him. He wanted so badly--too badly--to earn the trust of those blue eyes.

“It’s me,” Bucky reminds him patiently, “It’s Bucky, Bucky Barnes. You’re safe. You’re here.” 

Steve’s eyes lock on his, then, and his hands grab for Bucky’s t-shirt. Bucky lets him, the fabric bunching in Steve’s hungry hands, as if he needs something solid to hold onto. 

“Bucky,” Steve rasps, his voice thick. It doesn’t sound anything like how Bucky last remembered. Steve has the red and purple marks of fingers around his slender throat, jumping out against the contrast of his pale skin. It makes Bucky’s stomach turn, thinking of  _ Rumlow’s  _ hands at that neck. “I--I--”

“Shh,” Bucky soothes softly, reaching for the Tylenol he’d retrieved while Steve had been sleeping. Steve’s hands fall from his shirt helplessly as he moves out of reach, and the blond watches him with a confused, hurt face. 

Bucky pushes two pills into Steve’s hand, and a glass of water in the other. 

“Should help you feel better. What else do you need? Tell me, and it’s yours.”

Steve doesn’t even look down at the pills before he tosses them into his mouth and gulps down a few heavy heaves of water. Bucky realizes how much trust that takes, even if Steve doesn’t. He tracks the painful way Steve grimaces as he swallows. 

His throat was indeed hoarse, then. Probably from screaming, probably from Rumlow’s hands clawing at his neck. 

Bucky sees red. He has to take a few deep breaths before he can make himself focus back on Steve. Rumlow would get what was coming to him. Steve needed him now. 

“Just--try to go back to sleep, Ace. Your body needs rest.” 

Steve closes his eyes, but it’s only another moment before they fly open again, his face clouded with worry. “Christ, I-I was--”

Bucky presses a gentle but firm hand to Steve’s shoulder, urging him back down onto the bed when the blond tries to sit up. “You don’t have to explain it, Steve. You need rest. We can talk it all out tomorrow.” 

“S’bad,” Steve groans, screwing his eyes shut, letting Bucky’s touch push him back against the pillows without protest. Bucky is glad to hear life returning to Steve’s voice. 

Bucky didn’t know what exactly Steve was referring to--the pain? The situation in general? His experience with Rumlow? It could probably apply to all. 

“How bad?” Bucky urges. He felt rather masochistic, wanting to know the details so badly. But he needed to know how dearly Rumlow would have to pay. He’d lay Steve’s vengeance at his feet. He’d make Rumlow scream for what he’d done. “Tell me what you need. A doctor? I can have one here within the hour. Or do you want to go to the hospital--your hospital? Anything, Steve, anything you want. It’s yours.”  _ Just don’t ask me to take you home.  _ He would not be able to rip himself away from this injured man so soon, to leave him in the water when sharks could still be circling. He would  _ not.  _

Steve could have asked Bucky to order him a croissant from an obscure Paris cafe, and Bucky would have packed Coulson in a private jet and sent him to Paris without a second thought. 

He didn’t want to dig deeper into the reason  _ why  _ he felt so bound to the needs of this small, stubborn stranger. It didn’t matter, really. Steve had wandered his way into that alleyway, and in a sense, their lives became bound from that moment on, when he’d offered his own heart to that gun, over Bucky’s. 

Steve groans, shaking his head without opening his eyes again. “Not b-bad enough for all that fuss. I think...I think m’just one giant bruise. I’ll heal.”

“Okay,” Bucky says dubiously. Steve was the medical professional--he’d have to go by Steve’s opinion until he could better judge for himself how much of his pain Steve was masking. “If you change your mind, tell me, yeah? You don’t need to want for anything. Not anymore.” 

“Bucky,” Steve says urgently, pushing himself up onto his elbows, his wide eyes searching Bucky’s, even through the purple and swelling of his lids. “It was--it was him--”

“I know  _ who _ it was,” Bucky nearly growls, thinking of Rumlow’s hands on this innocent man’s throat. Steve had been a brave stranger, a stubborn one, and his kindness had been repaid with violence. There was never any doubt in his mind who had done this to Steve--it was exactly what he’d predicted would happen. Rumlow had found Steve. 

“One thing I don’t understand, though...why did he...stop?” 

“What?” 

“...hurting you. Why did he stop? Rumlow isn’t one to leave a job unfinished.” 

“I...t-told him I was yours,” Steve breathes, not looking away, something intense in his eyes, hard to decipher in the moonlight and beneath the bruises blooming there. 

Bucky nods--that was smart. A good strategy. Steve had proven himself time and again, his bravery, his cunning. “And then he let you go? Delivered you outside my door and sped off with his tail between his legs?” 

“I wish,” Steve scoffs without humour. “No, he. He hesitated, but he didn’t b-believe me.” 

Bucky frowns. That isn’t what he expected to hear. “What? So when did he drop you off?” 

“He didn’t,” Steve swallows, and then winces. “He, uh...well. I headbutted him, and--”

Bucky forgets how to breathe. “You  _ what?”  _

“--and then--”

“You overpowered and  _ escaped  _ Brock Rumlow?” Bucky feels like cheering, like high-fiving, like  _ goddamn dancing.  _

This civilian, this nurse, whose hands were trained to heal, had stuck it to Brock Rumlow, had gotten the best of him, and  _ escaped,  _ while bruised and battered. 

Bucky couldn’t be more impressed. 

“I… I guess I did, yeah. And then I s-stabbed him.” Steve’s eyes widen as much as they’re able, then, growing very concerned, the air of pride and relief giving way to something more terrified, more raw. His bottom lip begins to tremble, as if the realization of what he’d done had just hit him. 

It’s written so clearly over his face, that for a moment, Bucky is hit by how plainly he can read Steve’s internal turmoil. It seemed such a brave thing, to let these terrifying emotions wash over him, not trying to hide how scared he felt in front of a man he barely knew. It struck Bucky, then, how brave Steve really is, in every sense of the word. So brave, to let himself feel everything. To be vulnerable in that way. “Oh my god. I  _ stabbed  _ him. I could have--I might have killed him.” 

He reaches out a slow hand to press to Steve’s chest, to comfort him, to do  _ something  _ to stop feeling so helpless, but Steve is so bruised he’s not sure where to touch. His hands fall limp, and sit useless in his lap. 

“If you did, he deserved it, and much worse.” Bucky says flatly, though if Steve  _ did  _ kill Rumlow he’d be a bit disappointed that he wouldn’t get to do it himself, nice and slow. Painful. “And I’m thoroughly impressed.” 

“What? No. N-No, I’m not a killer I--I  _ help  _ people--” Steve chokes out, and then the wavering voice turns into a full sob. He shakes his head slowly, his eyes going unfocused, lost somewhere in a memory, “B-But he just kept  _ hitting  _ me, and  _ l-laughing,  _ and choking…I just wanted to get a-away--” Steve wheezes out around those terrible, gut-wrenching sobs. “And then I s- _ stabbed _ him.” 

“You were protecting yourself,” Bucky murmurs, his voice as soft as if he were crooning out a lullaby. It had been so long since this kind of guilt affected Bucky. The faces of those he punished and killed still littered his dreams at night, but he was mostly able to rationalize, compartmentalize. He didn’t enjoy killing, but he knew how to play the game, and the game was a dangerous, dark one. Dragging Steve further into this life, letting himself fall too deeply into those blue eyes...that game was perhaps even more dangerous. “Steve, he was going to beat you to death _.” _

Steve’s horrified eyes slide up to Bucky’s, like he’s just now realizing the horror and gravity of the situation. 

“He would have killed me,” He breathes. “He’d--he was going to keep hitting me ‘till I stopped f-fighting back.” 

“Yes.” 

“He--I. I would have died like that. There, in-in that basement. No one would have  _ f-found me--” _

“I was looking,” Bucky interrupts desperately, a hand reaching out to cup Steve’s face, as carefully as if he were made of finest porcelain. With all of the swelling and bruises, Bucky was afraid to hurt Steve, but Steve pressed into the contact, his eyes searching Bucky’s wildly--what he was looking for, Bucky didn’t know. He couldn’t explain the draw he felt, to keep pressing his skin to Steve’s--it wasn’t his right to do so, after all. But Steve was vulnerable in this moment, and he didn’t push Bucky away, and Bucky would keep taking advantage as long as that was true. “I  _ was _ looking for you. Keeping tabs on you. I knew something was wrong when you didn’t show up at work--” 

“You didn’t find me, though,” Steve’s lip trembles, but still, he makes no move to squirm away from Bucky’s touch. “No one did.” 

Guilt like he’d never felt before sinks somewhere deep in Bucky’s chest.

“That won’t happen again,” Bucky promises fiercely. 

He should have been there, something in him identified himself as Steve’s protector, and with this bruised and bloodied man looking up at him so innocently, that role only solidified more in his mind. He would  _ not  _ let this happen again. 

“This--you--you won’t ever go through this again, Steve. You have my word.” 

“I was so scared,” Steve breathes. “I’ve never felt fear like that.” 

“You were so brave,” Bucky praises softly. “So brave.” 

“I don’t feel brave. I just, I. I w-want to be safe,” Steve whispers, closing his eyes as a single tear escapes, running down his bloodied cheek. “I just want to feel s-safe.” 

“You are,” Bucky nearly growls. “Christ, Steve. Jesus. C’mere--you are. You  _ are.”  _ He doesn’t think about it, there isn’t time, really--and Bucky isn’t sure who reaches for it first, him or Steve, but the next thing he knows, he’s sitting on top of the covers, and he’s got Steve tucked into his arms. 

Bucky is afraid to touch that small, bruised body, but he can’t deny Steve a damn thing in that moment, not with that look in his eyes, not with those small, broken sounds he’s making. 

Something in Bucky told him that Steve needed to be held, to feel something solid and real against his body which had endured so much in the past few hours--and Bucky wanted to pull him close. 

For some unknown reason, being close to Steve feels natural, in the moonlight which obscured their features, which made everything in the room soft and dreamlike...it was easy. Easy to imagine that holding Steve was something Bucky deserved. Was worthy of. 

His hands shake a little as he adjusts his grip on the blond stranger who had somehow wound up in his penthouse, in his life, in his arms. 

“You’re safe, honey,” Bucky breathes, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Let it out. You’re safe here.” 

“I’m s-so  _ tired,”  _ Steve grabs handfuls of Bucky’s shirt once again, and Bucky doesn’t care that his own wound is fresh and this position stings--none of it matters. Steve needs him. “I’m so fuckin’ tired.” 

He tries not to revel in it, not to take it personally. It wasn’t that Steve  _ wanted  _ Bucky, specifically. But Bucky was here, and Steve clearly wanted the comfort of physical touch. 

Bucky knew how to hold someone. He could be this, for Steve.

It didn’t mean anything. 

“I’ve got you,” He promises fiercely, into Steve’s hair. It’s matted with blood, the sheets are caked with blood and grime. None of it mattered. “Rest, Steve. Let it out. I won’t let  _ anyone _ hurt you, not ever again.” 

“I-I know,” Steve sobs, clutching handfuls of Bucky’s shirt. “I’m st-staying. I want to feel safe,” he pleads brokenly, “I don’t e-ever want to feel that f-fear again.” 

“Not ever again,” Bucky agrees vehemently. “You’re staying here.”  _ You’re mine now.  _

“If he’s alive--” Steve straightens with a sniffle, looking into Bucky’s eyes. The blooming bruises around his eyes made his irises seem even more blue, even in the pale moonlight.

“If he’s alive,” Bucky interrupts darkly, forcing himself to keep his hands from turning into grabbing claws as they clutched at Steve, “He won’t be for long.” 

Steve stills at that, and then coughs a little, melting back into Bucky’s arms. 

“You can sleep, now, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, the nickname rolling easily off of his tongue. “I’ve got you. No one will ever hurt you like that again.” 

“Not even you?” Steve yawns, his eyes finally closing, the pain medication hopefully doing its work to relieve the worst of his aches. His voice is weak--Bucky didn’t know him well, hardly knew him at all, really, but he could recognize the difference. Steve was normally stronger than this. 

It must have taken quite a bit for Steve to show up here, so trusting that Bucky would protect him when he was in such a fragile, hurt state. 

Bucky had never been someone’s safe haven before. 

His penthouse was usually the wolf’s den that people avoided, if they could. 

But for Steve...maybe for Steve, he could be something better. 

“Not even me,” Bucky chuckles softly, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. The moonlight glitters off of the golden cross around Steve’s neck, and Bucky pinches the delicate charm between his two fingers. 

“He will cover you with his feathers,” Steve croaks, his voice barely audible, “And under his wings you will take refuge.” 

Bucky squints down at the arm wrapped protectively around Steve’s body. He recognized that bible verse from somewhere, the part of him that used to go to church and believe in the book standing at attention after so many years in the dark. 

A memory: his mother, standing rigid at his side in her best dress, her floral perfume wafting towards him and Becca, as they poke each other and whisper laughter, not a care in the world beyond tomorrow. A preacher with a cold gaze, promising heaven to a room of sinners. 

The rest of the verse yawns awake in his memory, and finds its way to his lips without his full consent. 

“You shall not be afraid of the terror by night,” Bucky whispers, looking out over the sleeping city, and then back down to Steve, whose eyes were closed, bloody lips slightly parted. His body was curled comfortably around Bucky’s. “Nor of the arrow that flies by day. A thousand may fall at your side...but it will not come near you.” 

He promised himself right then and there that he wouldn’t be the reason Steve stops believing in God. He’d protect that light, that faith. This man. 

Steve doesn’t reply, but his breathing evens out, into soft puffs of air out and a little wheeze in. Bucky finds he quite likes the sound. It’s an easy rhythm to fall into. 

He closes his own eyes, relaxing back into the headboard of the bed. 

Everything would work out. Steve was here, Rumlow was injured, and tomorrow would bring coffee and conversation with Steve. Tomorrow would have a plan to be followed, and revenge to enact. 

Tonight was good. Safe. 

It was probably only minutes later, just as Bucky feels the tug of sleep around the edges of his vision, when Natasha clears her throat softly from the threshold of the bedroom door, a little rectangle of light spilling into the room. She taps her foot once, expectantly. 

His eyes open, agitated, but he peels himself away from Steve, slowly, so slowly, so as not to disturb him. Once he’s on his feet, he casts another look down at the man, and finds Steve’s open palm reaching out to him, though his face remains blank, proof he’s still asleep. 

He swallows and forces himself to look away, then follows Natasha into the living room. He shuts the bedroom door behind him softly so their words don’t wake Steve. 

“What the hell are you thinking, James?” Natasha hisses, pinching the bridge of her nose. 

Bucky doesn’t like her challenging tone, but Natasha was his best friend, beyond working for him, and he would hear her out. He squints at the bright lights of the living room, folding his arms across his chest. “He’s hurt.” 

“This is complicated. He’s not...he’s not your obligation.” 

Was she wrong? No...but it was more than obligation. It was a desire to protect. To see him safe. 

“He needs me,” Bucky breathes, looking back to the closed bedroom door. He likes that feeling, something predatory in him wants to preen at it. Steve had sought  _ him _ out for comfort. Bucky wasn’t a comforting presence for most people. “I won’t let anyone else hurt him.” 

“I got a hold of Pierce,” Natasha admits, “Told him to call Rumlow off, that Steve was yours.” 

“And?” 

“He said he’d call Rumlow right away. Not sure if Rumlow got the call or not, he might have been too busy entertaining our little nurse.” Her eyes scan the closed bedroom door, as if she could see right through it. “Did he drop Steve off here?”

“No,” Bucky reveals a slow, satisfactory grin. “Steve stabbed him before he managed to get himself away.” 

“He stabbed Brock Rumlow  _ and  _ freed himself,” She echoes, not bothering to hide the impressed tone in her voice. “For a civ, he’s pretty feisty, isn’t he?” 

“I’ll say,” Bucky snorts. He feels a strong surge of pride at Steve’s accomplishments, though he’s not sure where it comes from. 

“So. What’s next, James? You’re going to show him off?” She challenges, folding her arms over her chest, “Let the world see that he’s yours?” 

“I’ll get the word out somehow. Depends on what Steve is up for. Rumlow and Pierce aren’t stupid. They don’t have my power, my reach. They’ll be too scared of what’s happened here tonight; they won’t try anything else. We have time to figure out a plan.” 

“They might,” She muses, “If you don’t punish what Rumlow did tonight. They might doubt how important Steve is to you, and if he didn’t kill Rumlow...he might come sniffing around for revenge yet again.” 

She had a point. Bucky presses his lips together, waiting for her to go on. 

“If Steve really was yours, and he showed up at your doorstep tonight, looking the way he looks--would you let it go? Would you brush it off?” 

“No,” Bucky admits sharply. He already felt an irrational anger bubbling up, now that he was over his initial shock and worry for Steve. He couldn’t deny he felt something fiercely protective towards him. 

“Exactly. So. What are you going to do?” Natasha narrows her eyes. “You have to be careful, you have to play this just right. You don’t want to start a war over one insignificant civilian.” 

“He’s not insignificant,” Bucky growls, his hands clenched into fists. He had a bit of Steve’s blood on them. “He’s--he saved my life. My  _ life.  _ I could be dead, if not for him.” 

“You offered him protection. He refused it. You don’t owe him  _ this. _ ” Whatever  _ this  _ entailed--use of the penthouse, of Bucky’s very bed, his protection, deceiving his enemies--she didn’t elaborate. But Bucky got the gist, and he didn’t like it. 

“And then he showed up at  _ my  _ door. Mine!” Bucky takes a dangerous step towards her, but stops himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. “He needs me,” He hisses, though he deflates a little, staring at the ground. “And I won’t turn him away.” 

She considers him for a long moment, before letting out a long sigh. “I don’t see this ending well,” She warns. “For either of you.” 

Bucky didn’t want to think about it  _ ending  _ at all. Steve is sleeping in his bed, safe, for tonight. That is all that matters, they’d deal with the rest as it happened. 

“Find Rumlow,” He turns away from her, one hand on the bedroom door. “Break both of his legs, his arms, his wrists, and his fingers...maybe carve him up a little--but leave him alive. You’re right, I don’t want a turf war with Pierce, but Pierce will respect retaliation, if he knows Steve is mine. He won’t counter.” 

The pause between his instruction and her reply made Bucky think that Nat had some choice words about his decision, but she lets out a long sigh. At the end of the day, Bucky called the shots.

“Fine,” She agrees dryly. A few seconds later, the elevator doors click close behind her, and she’s gone. 

Bucky waits a few moments, and then lets the tension seep out of his shoulders, hunching in on himself. 

He knows he shouldn’t; but he’s a weak man. 

He saunters back into his bedroom and sinks down onto the bed again, where he’d been before Natasha’s judging eyes had pulled him away. Steve had wanted him here, after all. 

His back is propped up against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him, on top of the covers. 

He watches the rise and fall of Steve’s chest, thinking of the way Rumlow would scream when Nat snapped his bones. It made something dark in him quite pleased. 

As if comforted once again by his presence even in unconsciousness, the tightness in Steve’s sleeping features relaxes, his brow smoothing out. His hands, with their bruised and bloodied knuckles, twitch towards Bucky. 

For a moment, Bucky held his breath, thinking that maybe Steve would reach out, would tangle their fingers together--but he doesn’t. His fingers curl back up into fists, and he doesn’t reach out again.

Bucky is left feeling stupid for the hope that had risen in his chest at the prospect of Steve reaching out to touch him. Why did he  _ want  _ that? Why did something in him preen at Steve’s closeness? 

Steve’s brow furrows again, and he lets out a soft, hurt sound, so clear that Bucky thinks for a moment that he’s woken up. 

But Steve doesn’t open his eyes, just lets out a quiet puff of air. A wounded breath. 

“You’re safe,” Bucky whispers softly, closing his own eyes. “You’re safe, ангел. Sleep, now.” 

As if Bucky words really did comfort Steve, his lips part, and his face relaxes once more. He cuddles closer to the pillow, and settles down for the rest of the night. 

***

Bucky hadn’t meant to fall asleep. 

He’d meant to stay awake, so that when Nat tried to reach out, he’d be present for some kind of update--but he’d failed. 

He woke up to her standing before him, arms folded over her chest, black leather gloves on her hands; her murder-gloves, as Clint called them. She only wore them when she didn’t want to ruin her manicure while getting some dirty-work taken care of. 

Bucky blinks the sleep out of his eyes. 

His neck is stiff as hell---his head had lolled to one side as he slept, still sitting straight up, and he’s paying for it now. 

But when he meets Natasha’s eyes, he sees she’s not eyeing him, but has both delicate brows raised, watching Steve with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. 

Bucky follows her gaze, and his lips part as he sees what she does. 

Steve had moved in his sleep to pull the blankets up around his chin, and had curled up small onto his side, looking impossibly tiny in Bucky’s California king, like a porcelain doll brought to life, minus all the bruises that coloured his ivory skin. 

He had, somehow, over the duration of the night, curled his way close to Bucky’s thigh, his forehead pressed to Bucky’s hip, breathing in soft little puffs there, with a slight wheeze. His hand grips a handful of Bucky’s joggers, like he meant to keep Bucky close, even in sleep. 

“You’re drooling,” Natasha comments dryly. Bucky blinks fast and swallows, staring back up to meet her judgemental gaze. 

“Am not,” He huffs quietly, not wanting to wake Steve. He didn’t want to think about how much he liked the idea of Steve “Let’s--talk in the living room. He should rest as long as he can.” 

“I--I’m up,” Steve suddenly wheezed out, making Bucky go still. 

He looks down at his lap to find Steve slowly inching away, but glaring up at Bucky as if he dared the man to say something about the somewhat compromising position he’d curled into during his slumber. 

Bucky presses his lips together and doesn’t attempt a snide comment. He isn’t about to get on Steve’s bad side. He’d stabbed a man less than 24 hours ago, after all. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you, Ace,” Bucky murmurs, “You can go back to sleep.” 

“No, I,” Steve winces as he straightens out, unfurling slowly, “I--should get up. Shower.” 

“Agreed,” Natasha wrinkles her small nose, and turns on her heel to stalk into the living room. 

“You remember where the bathroom is?” Bucky doesn’t look at Steve again, as he slides out of bed and straightens his undershirt. 

Steve clears his throat as if to cover up some small hiss of pain as he drapes his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up for the first time in many hours. “I remember,” he wheezes. 

“There’s more painkillers laid out on the counter. Help yourself to them, and to anything else in the bathroom. Or anything in the penthouse in general,” He offers a small smile. “This place can be your home for a while.” 

“I need a phone,” Steve says suddenly, looking around wildly. “Sam, my--my roommate. He’s going to be  _ freaking  _ out--” 

“Okay,” Bucky says quickly, already fishing around in his pockets to produce his own cellphone for Steve’s use. He holds it out to Steve without hesitation, and Steve quickly types in a number. “I’ll put in an order for a new one for you as soon as possible.” 

“Thanks,” Steve says quickly, but he sounds distracted, eyes darting around the room as he presses the phone to his ear. 

“I’ll be in the living room,” Bucky excuses himself softly. Steve doesn’t even look at him as he slips out the door, talking in a hurried rush into the phone. 

He catches a few words, before he closes the door between them; “I’m safe, Sam. He’s got me, I’m here. I’m safe--I’m--yes. I’m staying.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're about halfway!! If there are any specific scenes you'd like to see, now would be the time to request it :) 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!! 
> 
> p.s - we're only a couple weeks away from TFATWS. WHO IS EXCITED?!? i simply cannot wait for more bucky content, and the fics that the show is going to inspire. 
> 
> Woohoo!!


	8. i think i am a stick but never can be certain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would not let himself become anyone’s plaything, ever again. And Bucky, and Clint, and Natasha...they wouldn’t let that happen either. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See the end of chapter notes for TW

_Obviously my wounds are open to see_   
_But don't take them seriously_   
_I'll be fine_   
_And you're more than alright_

_Come and meet me in the trenches_   
_I'll be taking cover_   
_You can load the guns and_   
_I'll hide behind the others_   
_Always been a coward_   
_You can ask my friends_   
_I hide inside for hours_   
_Always had intense eyes_   
_I think I am sick but_   
_Never can be certain_   
_Still call up my mother_   
_Hiding behind curtains_

_Don't wake me, no_   
_Don't make me go outside_

_God knows what out there lies_   
_Come home and I don't die_   
_After you_

\- "Alright", Keaton Henson 

* * *

Steve feels a lot more... _ human,  _ once he’s scrubbed the blood and dirt from his body. 

He’s still in a world of pain, and his face is still a bit swollen and definitely bruised beyond his normal appearance, but it’s all injuries he’s seen on his skin before. 

He got into scuffles all the time, he was no stranger to a black eye, and he was reassured by the dull ache--it was nothing serious that ailed him. He’d heal. 

Rumlow had taken nothing permanent from his body. Just a sense of security from his mind.

When he shuffles into the kitchen, with a towel wrapped around his hips and downcast eyes, he hadn’t thought about the fact that Natasha would still be there. Somehow, being exposed in front of her felt more off-putting than being exposed in front of Bucky--perhaps a shield, a barrier, had broken down between them when Steve had wormed his way into Bucky’s arms last night. 

He didn’t want to think about that, about what it could mean. 

“Bucky, I--” He stops short when both their heads whip around to look at him. They’d been bent together, before, curled into each other, like they were deep in conversation. Dammit--he should have knocked. He forgot, for a moment, what kind of atmosphere this place had. This was the penthouse of one of the most powerful mafia bosses the city had ever seen. He couldn’t just shuffle around half naked and walk into rooms unannounced. He didn’t want to get on Bucky’s bad side, not now that he...needed him. His protection, at least. “Oh, uh...sorry…” 

“Steve,” Bucky addresses, turning more fully to face him. Steve doesn’t fail to notice the somewhat curious way Bucky’s eyes track up and down his body, catching for a moment at the bruises flowering across his ribs and abdomen, before trailing somewhat reluctantly back to Steve’s eyes. “It’s no problem--is everything okay?” 

Steve’s cheeks heat under that gaze. He stares only at Bucky, ignoring Natasha as much as possible. 

It’s an effort to stay still, to not collapse under the exhaustion and pain, which seems to hit him all over again under Bucky’s assessing stare...but he knows he must be strong. He’d let enough of his weakness show last night, he didn’t want a reputation as the damsel in distress. 

“Yeah, I just..I just don’t have anything to, uh. W-wear.” 

His clothes from last night were covered in blood, both his own blood and... _ his.  _ Steve didn’t want to think of his name, or recall his face. He’d rather go naked than put on the clothing that smelled like copper and smoke. Like  _ him.  _

Bucky nods understandingly, not looking at all the way Steve would have expected a mafia lord to look upon being interrupted for unimportant business. 

“My closet--the double doors opposite the en suite bathroom. My stuff...probably won’t fit well. But we’ll get you some things in your size as soon as possible--or would you prefer your own things? I can have my driver take you to your apartment--”

Steve’s face falls, his heart starting to race with panic, the idea of being back outside, back on the streets where he’d been grabbed, where Rumlow had  _ laughed  _ in his face as he bled--

“Out...there?” he looks out the window, down to the bustling street where just last night he’d hobbled along, scarcely able to take a deep breath, not sure if he’d die in the street like an animal or be strong enough to survive. Out there, where danger lurked. 

Bucky squints, confused. He opens his mouth to say more, but it’s who Natasha interrupts. 

Steve’s hands are shaking. His whole body is shaking, actually. When had that started happening? 

“--No,” Natasha snaps, getting to her feet. “He stays here. Send Coulson out to get a few things in his size. Steve,” She’s suddenly standing right before him, her focused gaze demanding his in return, “You’re alright, Steve. You don’t have to go out there.” 

He hears the quick pant of hyperventilation, and when Natasha grabs his hand in hers and presses them both to his chest, he realizes the breathing is his own. 

“Steve?” He hears Bucky’s worried voice, but Natasha holds up her free hand towards him and walks with Steve, back into the master bedroom, closing the door behind her and locking Bucky out of view. 

His ears are ringing so loud it’s impossible to hear anything above them, and his vision is spotty, but he tries to make himself focus on the erratic  _ rise-fall-rise-fall-rise-fall  _ of his chest under his own hand, blanketed by Natasha’s. 

“Breathe with me,” She instructs, taking a deep breath in through her nose, then out through her mouth. The technique is familiar to him; Sam urged the same kind of practice whenever he witnessed Steve having a particularly bad panic attack. He tries, shakily, to mimic her breath. “Good job,” she praises, in as soft a voice as Steve had ever heard her use. 

“What you did last night was brave as hell,” She tells him fiercely, and as he watches her with a panicked gaze, he sees a kind of mutual respect reflected in her face, one that told him he’d perhaps earned a strong reputation in her eyes. “You’re safe, now, Steve. Me, and Clint, all of James’ men...and especially James himself--we won’t let anyone near you ever again. You’re ours, now. One of us. And we protect our own.” 

He nods once, to show he’s hearing and understanding her words, as he tries to suck in a deep breath once again, to follow the pattern of breath she laid out for him. 

The aching in his ribs doesn’t make it easy, but with Natasha’s steady voice, a calm aura eventually begins to encompass him again. 

He didn’t have to go out there, not yet. And when he did, he would have these people, his protectors. Natasha was a warrior, everything about her screamed it out for the world to see. Perhaps Steve could learn to project the same kind of predatory confidence. 

He would not let himself become anyone’s plaything, ever again. And Bucky, and Clint, and Natasha...they wouldn’t let that happen either. 

“Thank--thank you,” Steve stammers, stepping back, reclaiming his own hand, suddenly aware that he was clad in nothing but a towel, hung low around his hips. Somehow, though, it doesn’t make him cringe in embarrassment. Here he is before her, small, skinny...and bruised. But  _ alive.  _ Proof that the evil that had grabbed him last night hadn’t won. He is the victor, he had escaped. He rolls his shoulders back, and nods once. “I’m okay.” 

“You don’t have to say that if it’s not true,” she murmurs, nothing but warmth in that voice. 

Steve swallows, but doesn’t have anything else to say to that. He wasn’t sure  _ what  _ he was; he didn’t think that the trauma of what he’d endured would have stuck with him. He was normally so good at shaking things off. 

“He marked you up pretty good,” Natasha sighs ruefully. She tugs her shirt down a little, and Steve looks away to be a gentleman. She scoffs at his reaction. “You can look. We match.” 

With some hesitation, he does turn his gaze back to her décolletage, which true to her word, bears a shimmering thin scar around the base of her throat. Steve’s hand comes up without thinking to touch the jagged line of his own fresh wound, in the same place as hers. 

“Rumlow,” She shrugs. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks, right? He loves the knife-to-the-throat gig.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve blurts, because he really isn’t used to comparing battle scars, and he doesn’t know what else to say. 

Some part of him, though, takes comfort in seeing the mark there, on her pale flesh. Natasha is beautiful, and powerful--a force of nature. If Rumlow had scarred her, and she had gotten away, the same way Steve had...well didn’t that make him beautiful and powerful too? 

“Rumlow has a smiley face carved into his back--courtesy of Clint, on my behalf,” She smirks. “And don’t be sorry. I’m not.” She offers him a small, secretive smile, like there was some kind of joke they were both in on. He...liked it. Before this interaction, he’d felt nothing but cool indifference from Natasha. Now, though, there seemed to be a growing respect budding between them. If he was to be a familiar face around the penthouse, he’d be glad to have a friend. 

“Grab some clothes,” She nods towards the french door closet Bucky had instructed him to raid. “Then come back out. We’ve got some stuff to talk about.” 

“Okay,” he agrees softly. As she turns back towards the door, he hesitates, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “--Natasha?” 

She tosses her red hair over her shoulder and looks back at him, her lips tugging up at the corners. “Hmm?” 

“Thank you. For--”

“Yeah,” She cuts him off with a dismissing wave of her hand, though her voice and eyes are warm. “I know. And...you can call me Nat, if you want.” 

Steve smiles at that, despite the ache in his ribs, the panic that had gripped his heart. 

“Nat,” he nods a little. “Okay. Okay, I will.” 

With that, she gives him a fond roll of her eyes and slips out the door. 

“You can keep him,” Steve thinks he hears Natasha tell Bucky under her breath, as she shuts the door behind herself. “I like him after all.” 

***

It shouldn’t really  _ matter  _ about the way the clothing fit him--right? What did he care how he looked? He’s not trying to impress anyone. 

_ Right? _

Still, though, as Steve eyed his reflection, he couldn’t help the way his ears turned a little pink, embarrassed at the way even the smallest of Bucky’s clothing hung off of him. He was practically drowning. 

He’d chosen what looked loose and comfortable, so it wouldn’t bother his wounds. Most of Bucky’s closet had been designer suits and undershirts that cost more than Steve’s rent...but he had found one sweatshirt, tucked in the back, perhaps from Bucky’s high school days. 

It read  _ Barnes  _ on the back, and  _ Brooklyn High Varsity Football  _ on the front. It was smaller and softer than everything else, probably a product of having been worn in for so long. 

By some miracle, he’d also hunted down a pair of joggers, which he’d rolled up at the waistband four times, likewise on the legs, and still had to keep tugging at the hips every so often, when they sagged dangerously low. 

He puffs up his chest, which he immediately regrets as a fresh wave of pain washes over him, and tries to be brave.  _ It doesn’t matter what he looks like.  _

He turns away from his black-eyed expression, and stomps very pointedly into the living room with his chin held high, just  _ daring  _ someone to say something, anything. 

When he finds Bucky and Natasha again, Natasha has her feet up on the coffee table, an iPad resting on the table beside them. She’s chewing on a bagel, looking bored. 

Bucky is standing up, his posture agitated. He’s got a take-out container from what looked to be from Crave Cafe in one hand, and a coffee in the other, steam rolling out of the lid of the take-out cup. 

“I’m definitely going to need some smaller stuff,” He begins, keeping his eyes down as he steps into view, embarrassed at the slouchy way Bucky’s clothes hung off him. “But, uh. Thanks. And I’m sorry about before--”

“Please, don’t be,” Bucky’s voice is pleading. “I should have suspected. And you won’t be forced to do anything that makes you uncomfortable--please know that.” 

Steve nods stiffly, and then his stomach gives a rumble that gives him away. 

“Uh,” he clears his throat apologetically, but before he can say more, Bucky gives him a knowing grin and holds out the food for him. 

“I had Coulson do me a favour, figured you’d be hungry. I had him ask the baristas if they knew of any spritely blond nurse who stopped in for coffee,” He grinned crookedly, his eyes sparkling, “And they did. So they said this is your usual order. I wouldn’t have pegged you for a latte kind of guy,” Bucky thrusts the food out for Steve to accept. 

“Definitely an oat-milk guy, though,” Natasha nods matter-of-factly. “I would’ve argued vegan, too.” 

Steve sticks his tongue out at her, and Bucky’s eyes dart between them, something of a satisfied smile coming over his face. 

“I’m starving,” Steve agrees, “And lactose intolerant.”  _ And anemic, and hard of hearing in one ear, and I have scoliosis, and-- _ Steve stops going through his mental list of ailments. Those were things they didn’t need to be shared with anyone else. 

He reaches out to grab the food and coffee, his fingers barely peeking out of the rolled up sleeves of the sweatshirt as he did. 

And as Bucky extended his own arms to pass the good over--their fingers touched. 

It was hardly anything--it  _ shouldn’t  _ have been anything. Steve had spent the night curled around Bucky’s thigh like some kind of loyal lapdog, after all. They’d already broken the touch barrier. 

But something about that skin to skin contact. Something about the way Bucky inhaled slightly at the cool touch of Steve’s hands compared to his own warm, rough ones...it made Steve shudder.

They didn’t speak of it. 

Steve offers a soft  _ thank you _ under his breath and sits down in the armchair across from Bucky and Natasha to eat. He gingerly tucks his legs up under him, mindful of the places where his wounds throbbed. 

It was indeed his normal order--a cinnamon raisin bagel, scrambled eggs, and a vanilla latte with cinnamon. 

His first sip of the coffee is like heaven, the aromatic steam filling his nostrils and immediately relaxing his muscles. It reminds him of busy mornings, of helping people, of smiling at strangers who never felt like a danger to him. Without meaning to, he lets out a soft moan as he swallows down the first mouthful. 

It is such a luxury, in that moment, to have good coffee. Familiar coffee. Something that sat warm and comforting in his stomach. 

“Good?” Bucky asks nervously, his voice a little husky. Steve realizes Bucky’s eyes tracked the bob of his throat as he swallowed. He isn’t sure what to make of that. 

Natasha is picking at her nails, trying to hide a smirk and failing miserably. 

“Yes. Thank you,” Steve offers up a smile. It hurts his split lip, but it’s worth it for the way Bucky flashes his crows-feet right back at him. 

Steve is beginning to sense a growing...friendship, perhaps, between them. It’s maybe too early to tell, but there is something about the coffee, about the shared smiles, that makes him feel like this place could be somewhere he belongs after all. 

“Now for more pressing matters,” Natasha clears her throat, giving Steve a nervous glance. “Rumlow.” 

If Steve hadn’t set the coffee down on the table before him in order to start picking at the eggs, he’d have dropped it on the floor at the abrupt mention of Rumlow’s name, so soon after he’d come down from his height of panic.

“Let him eat first,” Bucky says grimly, running a hand back through his hair. He’s got his dress shirt rolled up, the veins in his forearms protruding as he flexes his hands. The shirt is tight enough that Steve can trace the stitches of Bucky’s GSW, right along his lower abdomen. “Then we can talk.” 

“No, it’s fine. What-what about him?” Steve’s eyes dart nervously to the penthouse doors. He knows they’re guarded 24/7, but how much force would it really require for someone to silently take down two guards and force their way into the penthouse? 

“He’s not here,” Bucky rushes out, taking a heavy seat in the wide couch, a few spots away from Natasha. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees, spread wide. “He won’t be bothering you ever again.” 

Steve lets out a choked breath at that news. So it’s true. 

He is officially a killer. 

_ He killed someone, he-- _

“He’s alive,” Natasha corrects at Steve’s horrified expression, her voice sounding disappointed at that very fact. Her lips twitch as she admires her nails. “But he probably wishes he weren’t.” 

“I don’t understand,” Steve whispers. He’d felt the knife, buried into the hilt, he’d felt the hot pour of Rumlow’s blood, heard the sound of his body hitting the concrete.

“If you really were….mine,” Bucky grits his teeth to get the word out, like it causes some difficulty, “I’d never have let your mistreatment go without punishment--severe punishment. As it is, I’ve shown Pierce and Rumlow some mercy in my retaliation.” 

The language, the air of power that came around Bucky, like some sort of avenging angel--it made Steve’s mouth go dry. 

This man, standing before him, isn’t the man that had held and rocked him through the night with gentle arms. This is someone dangerous, and Steve would do well to remember that. 

“I took pictures,” Nat slides the iPad towards Steve, an invitation. “It might bring you some peace, to know that you look  _ much  _ better than the state I left  _ him _ in.” 

“You tortured him,” Steve confirms hoarsely, looking at the blank iPad back up to Natasha. If he opened it, what would he see? His captors face, would see his eyes...Steve shudders. 

“I repaid his treatment of you.” She explains softly, almost fondly. “Tenfold. And I was glad to do it.” 

“Pierce is thankful that I left Rumlow alive at all,” Bucky clenches his jaw. Steve watches the muscles jump there. “They’ll be staying far away from you.” 

“Rumlow won’t even be able to walk for the next few months, he’ll have casts on both of his legs,” Natasha grins like a cat that got the cream. “You wanna see?” She nudges the iPad with her foot again, but Steve shakes his head. 

His heart, some dark part of it, revelled in the fact that Rumlow had paid for what he’d done. The darkest parts of his soul sang out that he’d gotten retaliation for his torment. 

But mostly, the larger part of himself, the part that was trained to heal and save and help...it recoiled at the thought of even more senseless violence. 

As it is, he just shakes his head, but offers her a small smile, a genuine one, even if it’s a little shaky around the edges. “I appreciate you sticking up for me.” 

“It’s not personal. Just business.” 

For some reason, Steve doubted that. Perhaps it was their earlier connection that made him think Natasha would be an easy friend to make. A loyal one. “Regardless.” 

She opens her mouth as if to protest more, but then settles on a fond eye roll like the one she’d given him earlier, and he knows he’s right. 

“So...” Steve takes a bite of his bagel, forces himself not to think of things like revenge. “If Rumlow has been punished...does that mean I have to go home?” His voice breaks a little on the last word, the idea of being thrust out into the streets didn’t sit well. 

“News will spread that you’re mine,” Bucky says very slowly, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “If we are never pictured together, if no one sees you with me...people won’t believe it. Claiming it isn’t enough. We need to establish a reputation.”

Steve nods slowly around a sup of his coffee. It made sense. The information is followed by a strong wave of relief. He didn’t have to leave, not yet. 

“So..what do we do? Go grocery shopping together, hope the tabloids track us down?” 

Natasha laughed a little. “You’ll go to an event.” 

“An event,” Steve echoes, squinting at her. That sounded very...formal. Intimidating. With...dancing. Steve grimaces. “Like?” 

“I’m not just a criminal,” Bucky shrugs, sounding a bit offended, “I’m also an investor. And I’ve got a wide social circle. I attend lots of galas, charities--” 

Natasha rolls her eyes and flicks Bucky firmly on the ear, causing him to scowl at her. It’s a very childish interaction, one that makes Steve press his lips together to keep from laughing.  _ This  _ was the mafia boss that everyone was so afraid of? 

“I’m going to stop you right there before you go off on a brag-fest,” She interrupts, turning back to Steve, “He spends money. So he gets invited to fancy parties.” 

“ _ And,”  _ Bucky gives Natasha a sharp look, though his eyes dance with laughter, “if I were to show up to one of these parties with you on my arm…” Bucky shrugs, a lazy drop of his broad shoulders. “The word would be out. Pictures would be taken. As long as we do something like that every once and while, you’ll be safe.” 

Steve had never been to any event fancier than his high school prom. He takes a calculating sip of his coffee, and his eyes flicker to the window once again. 

The outside world, the streets he’d spilt blood on. His stomach turns.

Bucky’s gaze tracks his own and his lips press together, a flash of something unreadable on his face, perhaps anger. At him, or Rumlow, Steve didn’t know. 

“You have a week before we make our official appearance. Should be long enough for the worst of your bruises to fade enough to be covered with makeup, and--”

_ And long enough to muster up the courage to step outside again-- _ though Bucky didn’t say the words, he didn’t have to. Steve could fill in the blanks. He wets his lips.

He can’t say that the idea of some uppity event where he’d be shown off like a piece of arm candy really warmed his heart, but he knew  _ why.  _ And as he’d told Bucky in the desperate hours of last night, he just wanted to feel safe again. He’d do what he had to do to achieve that. 

“Right,” He makes his voice sound stronger than he feels. “Okay. Sure. But, uh. Until then?” 

“I have business to attend to,” Bucky admits sheepishly, “You’ll have full access to the penthouse, except the boarding room,” He gestures to the elevator, signalling that this room was on another floor, and likely the place Bucky held...business meetings...if they could be called such things. “I don’t want you anywhere near that place.” 

That is where the wolves gathered, Steve knew. He is not eager to enter the den. 

“Sounds boring,” Natasha smirks. “Good luck keeping yourself entertained.” 

“I’ll leave a credit card for you--you can order food, or, whatever else you’d like to pass the time,” Bucky dug through his pockets and slid a card across the table, unbothered. “Your new phone will be arriving later this afternoon.” 

Steve takes another bite of his bagel, trying to absorb all of that information. He’d be here, in the penthouse...alone. All day. “Okay,” He says slowly. 

“You’re free to come and go as you please, but...if you’d rather stay here, that’s fine as well.” 

Stay here he would, at least for today, and probably for tomorrow. He believes Nat and Bucky that Rumlow won’t be bothering him anytime soon, but there are other dangers out there. He’s not eager to face them. 

“And...sleeping?” Steve’s gaze darts nervously back to the main bedroom, before fluttering back over to Bucky, a faint stain of pink on his own cheeks. 

Bucky only smirked, a dangerous, predatory grin. “You’ll take the guest bedroom. Unless you’d rather--”

“The guest room is fine!” Steve chokes out quickly, as Natasha snorts. “Uh--thank you. For. For everything.” 

“Right.” Bucky nods once, and then gets to his feet, casting a dubious glance at Steve. “You’ll be here alone, but my men are just outside the door, for security. You can ask them to call my driver, Coulson, if you want to go anywhere at all. When your new phone comes, it will have Coulson’s number, mine, Nat’s, and Clint's all pre-programmed.” 

Steve nods quickly to show he understands. “Thank you,” He says again. He’s not sure what else to say. This whole situation was beginning to feel surreal, if it didn’t before. 

You’ll be safe, and I’ll be on the floor just below. If you need me, my men can get a hold of me for you. For anything at all. But--” 

“But don’t come to the board room,” Steve swallows. He isn’t the least bit tempted to explore the room, not even while it’s empty, let alone in the middle of the day, when it could hold a handful of the city’s most dangerous men. “I get it.” 

Natasha checks her watch, and then yawns. 

“Pierce will be here soon,” she reminds Bucky lazily, stretching out on the couch before getting slowly to her feet. She tucks her red hair behind her ear. “Another day, another dollar.” 

The name  _ Pierce  _ sends a cool shot of ice through Steve’s veins. Rumlow was Pierce’s right hand man. Which had to mean that Pierce was, in every way, darker and more dangerous than his second in command. 

“You’re safe,” Bucky reminds him softly, even as he heads for the elevator. “I promise.” 

Steve doesn’t fail to notice the gun Natasha slips into her belt as she steps onto the elevator beside Bucky. He swallows as he considers why she’d need to bring a weapon to a “business meeting”. 

“You’ll be back later?” Steve calls, hating the desperation in his voice. 

“Later,” Bucky agrees, but offers no more specific information on what exactly  _ later  _ meant. 

The elevator doors close, and Steve is left alone with his thoughts. 

He takes a long chug of the latte, and then sets it down as if he’d just done a shot. 

“Okay,” He says out loud, rubbing the exhaustion from his swollen and bruised eyes. “It’s fine. Everything is fine--I’m just. Hanging out. In James Barnes’ penthouse. Alone. With his credit card.” He glares at the offensive piece of plastic, and then tosses his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “While he conducts mafia business one floor below. Involving guns. And… illegal stuff.” 

Fuck.

What the  _ hell  _ had he gotten himself into? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Steve experiences a panic attack, brief mentions of torture. 
> 
> _____________   
> The song I've included at the beginning of this chapter gives me BIG stucky vibes... anyway  
> TFATWS COMES OUT THIS WEEK. WHO IS EXCITED  
> should I write a ficlet of Bucky reading The Hobbit to Steve in 1937......

**Author's Note:**

> your comments/kudos give me LIFE -- what do you think so far? :)


End file.
